These little ones of no labels

drift from end lines of categories

into anomalies, vague disorders of the spirits,

children of telescopic eyes who see through curtains,

wander fearlessly where few seek shadows,

invent nonsense words that do not follow lines —

kin to dancing dogs and cartoon cats


The Great Chalk Witch demands orderly flow,

no trick questions, no backtalk,

life smooth, ordinary and calm,

marks X on what they draw on tabula rasas

of not otherwise specified or described,

the moon that is no man, the goateed god,

shouts at them,

“Claudia, sit still for a change!”

“Ives, what are you doing in the broom closet?”


The kids of chaos say “no” because “yes” is wrong,

diverge in the right directions;

the ghoul’s in the details, at least

what they pick in puzzles,

the  skewampus they find

in trains off tracks en route to canyons,

airborne to galaxies of crayon orange


No need to fear for the boy who laughs

in the light of utter darkness,

the girl who pirouettes without music

in the darkness of bright light


They have already entered the glow






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