Five glass water jars
sit on a windowsill.
Each contains an identical scene
complete with sunset and silhouette.
All the same.
You could pick one up in your hand
and let the cool liquid of a tiny world
run down your throat
until all that remained were droplets.
Condensation of memories.
But you won’t, not yet.
Not until the sun dissolves
into darkness
and all you can see in the glass
is a reflection
of your own long nose.