Wednesday, October 13, 2010


Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop
with the sweep of an arm,
the splash
of a foot.
Punctuated with little girl voices:
"Pretend we're princesses,"
"Pretend we're getting married."
Mounds of luminous bubbles
pile high on their heads--
delicate, ephemeral crowns.
Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop,
the soft crisp sound
of their imaginary taffeta skirts.
"Pretend we're sea monsters."
A sparkling, bloodless massacre
of hundreds of fleeting bubbles, popping.

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