I’d like the balloon
stuck in a tree
left over when I’m gone
to read AMNESIA
and every day there would
be a pilgrimage gathered
at the trunk to watch
the remaining helium
continue to expire
until the only thing left
just a wrinkled sack
dangling in the branches
and the people who are
congregated together will
laugh to themselves
at the resemblance.
Then they’ll forget
what they came there for
and dance in different voices.
