They live in unknown worlds of cola
and happiness. I see them sometimes
in magazines, worry-free, buttoning
a shirt or maybe unbuttoning
 
the very same shirt. Each little paradox
gets kissed and blown to an unknown wind
from an open hand with the expected
number of fingers. The sunshine lingers
 
in their hair. The sunshine talks about this
and that, never wanting the day to end.
And, oh, what fingers! That next gesture
is unexpected in spite of the hand’s
 
composition. The next page shows someone
in love with a shiny red countertop.