What if thoughts
were like marbles on the floor
rolling over planks of consciousness?
Watch them collide.
What happens to the pennies
fallen on the sidewalk
like copper snowflakes?
Turqouise rust in the grass.
Which tells you more
the book
or the hand that wrote it?
Pages yellowed, joints arthritic.
Where are the children who cry
watching their balloon
fly into the heavenly abyss?
Mother never cried.
Why does she scowl
when the sun transforms the morning fog
into golden miasma?
Weekends are far too short.
Who decides
what you become
and where you end?
Collect the marbles.