First thought: the sharp delicacy of the creases
this cardboard discard on the sidewalk
displayed were far less about chaos than clarity.
Even its grease spots, stray threads and rug
fibers suggested a parity with what the crumpled
cut-out cardboard creature’s idea might have
been had it pondered the nature of hair –
that is, if it had more for brains than blank air.
But who said it hadn’t? Whoever had artfully
scissored, incised and revised it into this sweet
intricate form seemed to me to have seeded it
somehow with all the warm prospects of mind
and intention and sentience. It had already eerily
churned in its pencil-drawn eyes a frank gaze
full of message I sensed it had terrible ways
of conveying to me with intensity. Dread threw
its freeze and its heat at my heart: I wasn’t
prepared in this play for this part. I looked away
roughly, abruptly, and felt my throat thicken.
Couldn’t bear to look into its eyes. I was chicken.
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