Monday, June 10, 2013


Such fascination found,
in those small, colored orbs,
in the plink each made
when dropped upon another,
glass inside of glass,
               their novel magnitude, illusion.

They appeared to float.

All mere picture.

I had forgotten the struggle,
                  the hands at
           and its cause,
recalled not,
                 the crash spill
of anger at
sudden realization of the
    disparity of what is and
                      what is wanted.

My own lack of memory seems ironic even now,
juxtaposed with
    the girl of then,
who, no more than I,
could grasp the chasm of time.

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