the nihilist.

In the parlour the box of marbles
is stuck to the hands of the great purple turtle.
The reptilian toyteaser fusses the knobs,
directs silver spheres to their rightful paths.
Behind the curtain in the easy light,
He delights in the sound of the rumbling roll
of the raw racing runners to rightful paths.
Through tattered tortoise spectacles he watches
dizzily his ancient hands on the knobs
as they turn, revolve the little wooden world;
old as they are, but not yet one billion.
A simple little box engraved
with lines that rhyme a thousand times.

Below I watch small girl at her pen,
wondering if the people in her drawings are cold
as I, a brunette marble, roll and fall
on my dark mission, falling with
the one who has fallen before me,
into the holes of a square, wooden Earth.
And pushing and pushed against, rolling
rumbling rawly then rising and rising
up and almost touching the glass.