The Museum
of Childhood |
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They are hard, and
peach across. Or they flutter down into their nightly rest unharmed. What can fear tell them how thickens the air, unhampered by any sleep goes out barefoot, tries mounds bristled dry around deleted uses. Rebound into the messed up chorus, a child sitting on or hanging from every branch, black faced and hollering with hunger. Look around at the vents of shired quadrangles, parking spots of a world never on loan, always over there, and just so now, as the switch of eye flicks open a bus window. Go little cadet, you have no more time and dance around the stumps and nets in grace, even then seeing the veil come off like a vest at the rec, fake coins fluttering around the brim. Oh how vain you are, icy with wheels and frills, seeing yourself abounding everywhere: the swing links, the drain, the tennis balls that scream through the air. Nothing will snap shut, but only emptied and fall open like a big pouch; then to write in recompense, tag the remaining of the numbered scripts. |
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