by Richard Osmond

As a baby I said nothing as the sun
Flowed into my eyes and the wonder
Of the “too big to even think” world
Was beautiful. It was left undefiled
Until I began to speak

I cut out photos from magazines
And made a collage of the world
That I taped across my window.
I argued so much about birdsong
That I never heard it.

Every time I described something
I did it an injustice, shrunk it into
A silhouetted representation.
I talked God down off his perch
And into my pocket.

I broke the second commandment.
Everything I said was a graven image,
An imprisoning mockery.
Not letting go, I talked and talked.
The world was far too small.