We keep treading because we do not want to sink.
We hold each other, interlocked like a metal grid,
for fear of tearing up and apart.
Woven in a wicker basket, we carry all of our burdens with us
in pastel Easter eggs hoping they are not found as
hieroglyphs in our own plaster. Gutted with baby-haired piety
and Stygian endearments, we collapse ourselves in unsweetened
fondant so that we may believe them ourselves.
How splendid it is to sing too much
and love each other though it is hard.