Child’s Conversation With Mr. One

Lend a marble and I’ll toss it into a hollow for its think-worth.

Little tune, oh that sound of leaves—cushion—at the bottom, the sound of leaves: like an itch you can’t scratch—it’s a sound in the brain, that itch—but it’s there.

I’ll tend it for decades and braid its hair, oh yes; not-theres are going straight into my brain.

One says: “It doesn’t have hair.”

Yes it does! It does right along the longest years, there’s a bitty strand of something that teases with in the torso of my memory, and I toy with it, and find others—can only find it after

Stretch-touching time past.

Lift up you eye lids a bit higher and perhaps you’ll see the beauty you gave up on out in this world obeyed.

I see it; it sets in the bowl of your mind. Do you often stir it, your Earth? It’s gutting, and a tad bitter.

One stares.

Aren’t you tired of convincing your self that you’re special?

FellowMan