Friday, August 20, 2010

The most normal sun grinning

On her knees, beneath a wall of shirts/ She gathers

the best box from the stack/ Brings it to kitchen table

Where her fingers may work inside/ There, she stitches

the scene/ Constructs world in an evening, from paper

forgets how they told her green for grass, blue for sky, hears

other sounds: the passive paper she scissor-cuts

trees to sweep ceilings/ Spikes for grass, for dimension

she draws the most normal sun grinning

From the outside a hole, fork-pierced/ Through it, a string

fed through purple clouds/ And knots/ So they’ll swing

without dropping, fill space, chafe against

the sky, orange

The people—she places them last, folds lip

at their feet/ To press them down, into

the-too-much-puddle/--That unseen seam

to dry, forgive her/ --Shiny, smooth

A world inside a box, she carries

on her

hipless/ Paper-people, resurrected

from the crease/ sway inside

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