gleaming and new,
like a schematic in his mind.
He thinks of all that he could do,
if he only had the right materials,
and the right tools, too.
There's something oddly lyrical
about the passage of time, as he waits.
Is it spherical?
Arching like the gates
of his childhood made-home
beyond which the monsters await?
He draws in those old arches as he sits alone,
but the design is slipping.
He remembers metal, but thinks of bone.
Funny how the paper's ripping
under his pencil's heavy strokes,
while the vision's slowly dripping
from memory to matter like the universe's grand hoax.
So much is lost in translation,
he thinks if he tried to pronounce the words now he would choke.