The Cough II

A great rotunda. Bitter cold.
Then one drop — dangling —
an out-of-place pearl. You don’t want it

to drop. You want it
to drop. You don’t want it
to drop.

But it does.
And when the ripples run
to the edges of the circular pool,

that’s when all the tickling
icicles fall. And shatter.
And stab.

And then.
And then they rise up again —
the hollow pipettes

like the bones
of hummingbird
figurines —

reforming the cage
of icy
chimes.