【by Grace Fangmann】

me, if I was shot into This
glass of quiet champagne, tinted
bubbles rising to the surface,
delicate architecture;
high on the
respirated
carbon,
longing
for a
pinprick of stars,
the tiny tinted bubbles,
racing
for
the rim of the glass;
me, if I was shot
Somewhere within
the night,
not caught between the
darkness, not
speared against
the starlight;
me, and gestalt, we
find him there, in
the Little Things we
Loved along the Way;
a Whole so much greater than
the conglomeration of its parts–.