About Suffering They Were Never Wrong
One half of the room curt and drawn, diagrams
across parchment, labeled strings to ants
warbling into seashells and the echoing ocean,
cataloged cones of conifers, pelts of beach-strewn animals,
feathers and feathers, some plastered with glue,
hourglasses and spectacles and units of measurement.
The other side, a half-made bed, feathers spewed
from pillowcases, a doll with eyes blooming in cataracts,
an etched stool and desk, marbles scattering a phalanx
of toy soldiers, shield and spear discarded. On the sill
two small footprints where they jumped. Tell me,
could the blind prophet have known that curse?
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