This is the dance of no hard feelings,
deranged sonnet constructed
to resemble a paper Valentine.
All morning the mother animal
refused to nurse the baby animal.
Call it a mongoose, seal, or sea
urchin, birthed on wind-whipped 
horizons stacked with travelers’ 
skulls.  I don a red woolen cap, 
keep going. The arctic elements 
hurl insults before relenting.
The crowd’s collective sullen
face:  dust on a spiral staircase
made of frozen water, or gold.
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