“Was anything left after it all was molded?
Are the stars more like fleas or like clover?
And if it’s true that the universe is folded,
where does the part of it that remains flow over?”
You’ll suppose this is just a metaphor;
for we’re all as good as certain there’s nothing else.
And then you’ll wonder what reason I’ve kept it for –
this notebook of childish questions, I mean.
They’re scrawled in a hand of my original self.
On occasion they’ll come to visit in a dream.
Sometimes it’s their dream, other times it’s mine.
I hope that you have also had dreams of this kind,
in which the child within is an angel that sings.
Is it a virtue to conceal such things?
Our nonchalance is an angel waiting for wings.
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