Collected

I am writing this poem
out of a small hand
My snail has already
left me. I am sat beside
a penny, two beads, and
a plastic yogurt cap
The child leaves a light
I have never felt more
love, more oafishness
than a child trying to
lift me. Placing me up
front with all the newly
found words, drawing
me a picture in which
I am taller than the house

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