He sits in the corner
on the floor,
with his knees up.
He peeks over them.
Watches me.
Of all the incomprehensibles
I am the worst.
The universe does not know
what to do with him.
I do not know what to do with him.
He seems unaware of pain,
but his eyes have the brightness
of tears,
of fascination.
He is unmarked by time.
Just a boy,
determined to stay where he is.
Of course he will die.
As soon as I wake
he will be gone.
There is nothing I can do
to budge him from his place,
except thank him for his imagination,
and mourn where he stays.