There were various tones that might be assumed - the
confessional, the conversational…
Years before you’d get that far, though. But what, then, was
learning? More mattered than what was mastered – much more.
At first it was the concern of finding
good old Mr. Squirrel, darting around and about
the bushy, rowed-up bushes (or were they hedges?) –
while Mr. Squirrel in his bushiness hedged.
Was the world somewhat more or less than a quibble?
A little bit of neither, one guessed. Maybe both.
One found oneself limbed with feelers, digits
that readied blank space for initialization,
thumbing, fingering for what was to be filled in
with one’s fine images of the imaged,
and prying open emptiness in its fullness.
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