. . . .
He is delicate with inanimate objects
There is old and dry dirt
under his fingernails
He lays stones and all day
Gives them tops and bottoms
Ends and ends.
It all makes sense in the end,
A shape, finally, and
He claps his hands
The dust erupts, startled
Spreads itself
And waits for him to leave
Before settling again.
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