the clod
a child turns a clod
beside the warm wall
out spill the sun beetles
the eggs of pallor
sometimes a devil’s coach horse
sometime a stag beetle jumps
the child backwards
until another clod spills
but not yet the urge to capture
to jam jar the prizes
for now the child’s eyes are as free
as the the four corners of escape
centipede millipede
the words writhe
crumble like the soil
from the tussled clod
the child has enough soil
to fingernail home
to smudge in the day’s book
the colour of an explosion
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