Half-written and uncertain imitations
Are tacked chaotically together there,
Thousands of small, inimitable figments
Of some wide-open mouth's terrified saying.
They left them here, and in the schoolyard playing
Forget their feeble, unassuming segments
Of this thing, on the wall beside the stairs,
The open forum of their innovation.
The cold grass is a symmetry of sneakers,
Wood panels frame a measure of white pebbles,
Some stand on legs, with platforms, walls, and towers,
Beams drawn out in a rush of shaky lines.
These bars, the chaff of re-assembling minds;
These bridges, jealous of the secret powers
That crush them, lie beneath swift feet and tremble
Subordinate below the treasure-seeker.
The sheets of paper in the hall are strange:
A tiny tack supports them on the wall
(They're blue or green, of little circumstance),
And every paper with like measurements.
These crayon lines are like in their intent,
Though what they find dies at a sideways glance:
Floor tiles of one sort flooring out the hall,
Flanked by gray bricks in careful stacks arranged.
It's empty and too silent of a place
Without their native lore to guide my sense.
What should I see? I'll try to understand:
This glowing circle is a burning sun,
Unmodelled and originally done;
Another here's the outline of a hand
In a red pencil; and just three feet hence,
I see the outline of a human face.