Crystal people, you see, are drawn to crystals.
They’re beautiful and sharp, these fragile
Windows that distort the landscape.
How in a room they overtake it,
How in the sunlight they reveal their flaws.
And the people too, the lovers of order,
Are made of badly working crystal,
Everything coming out all bent out of shape.
I told all of this to a child’s punching bag.
It was inflated, and shaped like a clown
Which was ceremoniously laughing at me.
I gave it a little nudge, and it bounced back
By the weight of the sand in its soul.
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