that i'm out of control.
if i stare at a rock long enough,
which is three seconds,
i have to write a poem
about it.
same goes for a paper clip,
or a lug wrench.
i've lost my marbles,
speaking of which, i still
have the same one
from when i was ten years
old.
there it is on the sill, full
of wonder, a clear glass orb,
with a story waiting
to be told.
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