• A boulder makes a sound
    Like a panned flute as
    It drifts into the ground where all thoughts go,
    A snoring shade of gray
    Denting the asphalt – Now curlicues of a
    Lack of introspect.
    If it could talk, it would tell you –
    Heavy brains fall hard.

    It rests here for a while,
    Trying to dig into the ground
    For any idea at all.

    Elsewhere –
    And in fact not in the ground – is
    A glass marble of thought,
    Screeching through the air like
    A hostile piccolo.

    The latter spots the former through
    A bothersome cumulonimbus of outward conflicts,
    Drifts more slowly down,
    And at last collides.

    A crack appears in the crash-landed brain –
    All the broken pencil lead that went into this –
    Grows, and makes a snuggly crater
    Up top for the marble idea.
    Repairs can be done later.