of a few slate gray
pebbles on the mantlepiece—
so far away
from their frenzied
ocean past
on this
declassé tuesday that it might just not exist.
Suddenly, the intent to dust
around them fumes
to reverie
as you finger
and fiddle for the whim
that bid you carry them:
never mind
what's useful
or true; a life
is all
about what's
necessary.
