Childhood

Childhood

If you slide your finger along a seam
where shadow is stitched to light,
as you might slip it through
a bowl of chocolate pudding

to harvest a slick of sugar,
perhaps over a leaf,
bearing the heft of shade and sun
or a stone that, at once,

is touched by heat and shivers;
your finger will skim
the magic that thickens dragons’ smoke,
powders a fairy’s wings,

scrapes and greys a troll’s skin
so that it might sit atop
a crag of rock, unseen,
giggling and giggling.

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