Perhaps the wind makes toys of dead leaves,
scraped against gutters and set under cars,
or the Sun sets behind a famous woman’s children.
Perhaps the sea is so full of krill,
the krill themselves are the world,
or the whales eat hot coals and tired whales.
There’s a pushed cart by every vendor’s hand,
and a chocolate use for all young faces.
Can there be any bright motion flashes
in a shaped thing, a moving thing,
that chance has not stirred with its stick?
Perhaps an ice age coasts over town,
perhaps a meteor on stardust and crashes,
this here and you there.