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A gyroscope is as good as a pen or candle,
Spinning along a line—slow slant, faster still.
When the wobble comes, it delights.
Draw what you’d like with that pen.
The point will loop and scrape. Satisfied?
Illuminate a little spot with that candle,
just enough to set a pill on the rag. There.
My God, the muttering. Imagine a toy broken
and placed with reverence (so phony! So terrible!)
into the hand of a child who expected wonder.
Nothing arrives intact. Yet again, she learns that.
Plastic bits and rust shards turn up:
All pranks played back.
Bags are miracles. Light, like tricks. Strong and
weightless, they’ll hold. Stuffed in drawers, pulled
from coats, shapeless masterpieces to jangle
our plenty, to fill our fill, to retrieve the clattering
trinkets we’d loved and concealed.
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