by Christa Klinger
suspended like a fawn in the womb
or a moth in a paper weight
hearing nothing but, maybe,
mufflings of another world
taking with it entire mountains
plucking roots, picking boulders,
making mud pies to be envied
the mix strewn together
on the asphalt platter below
cuttlefish or catfish
indiscriminate coddler, but itself
the temperament of a toddler
throwing tantrums in the evening
and by morning, playing fine