Story cubes poem #3 – Attic poem

The child hoards marbles into his lap blind
to the number in piecing between
his palms – it only matters
the in-numberness
to be taken up

Up and close (and personal) he goes
to see where, where in the world
can the treasure be hidden
on the sweet cusp of
no light

(for the grown-ups not to find it ever)
and not enough dark for the
monsters to settle there –
his own devious spot
to be invented

Unknowingly walking the filament line,
the child weaves and loops his
way into bigger things, the
marbles falling off
one by one.


The dice gave me a lock, a lightbulb, and an abacus


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