The Black Marble

Once, in the attic,
a marble – black as holes –
rolled to me – came to rest
on the floorboards –
below the rafters –
cathedral and coarse.

Once, in the attic,
among the dustlight
and distended grilles
where I stood, a marble
rolled to me – came to rest
in a joint, sprung from frost
and heave.

And once, in the attic,
a man took a marble
into his palm, into his pocket,
and some forsaken boy
closed the trap,
descended the stairs
and with his hands,
ate breakfast.

Image: Nabeel Hussain on Unsplash

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