At Six
At six
I took the wooden blocks
Spilled them from their canister
They fell around me
Symmetrical in design
Rectangle, arc, square
I took a wax crayon
And drew a house
Three black windows
Neatly latched
A single cord of smoke
Draining from the fire
This morning
The wax has taken to the air like vapor
Clinging to my clothes and eyes
The canister of blocks is stacked in the cellar
The grain of one block
Flows into the next
There is nothing straight or square or simple
There is nothing my hands can touch.