You topple yourself,
tumbling crystal
for the sake of making me smile.
Forgetting—but for a while—
is decent medicine.

You make a fool of yourself
and drink to my health,
throwing petals
so I neglect to let the nettles in

when they call.

“I shouldn’t do this.”
(you sing it and sigh)
“Fake wisdom decays so quickly,”

but I cling to your jokes
like leaves threaded through spokes
of white bicycles
through a garden so sickly.

You revive me
for a little,
though the season will end
—in sinister sadness I am rooted
so deeply,

but your patches of light
bring me fair weather, friend.
How I treasure them
and you
so sweetly,

so
completely.