First Accidental Day Of Winter

Out the window, the dour of dawn.

The hot air balloons look like figs and valentines.

Some touch down in shopping malls, to clapping
mannequins.

Some, among shamrocks, where hope
is a potato row, and faith a thing with Fathers.

One comes to rest in a rice paddy: above, the mirrored carny heart,
below, the smirking skulls.

One is mistaken for a duchess.

One deals out death,
sandbag by sandbag.

Eventually, the sky is absent
of everything.