Title?

From the box

            I pull

            a rock.

Heavy with age,

            it sinks

            into my palm

and my fingernails

            take away

            small gouges

from the soft surface,

            revealing

            a glimmer.

The box says,

            “Oh yes,

            that glimmer.”

The box utters

            the word,

            “Grotto,”

and I am

            transported

            deep beneath

the rolling prairies

            to the cave

            from which it hails.

I see an ancient

            Parisian cataphile

            in thick boots

crunch through

            drips of lime

            illuminated by

his vintage helmet

            with the lamp

            which casts

a carbide cone of light

            over the glimmer

            of the earth.

His little canary

            chirps and flutters

            alone in its wire cage,

separated from the

            clouds she

            yearns for

and a nest of twigs

            with three

            little eggs

nestled lonely.

            A crunch

            of pick

against ancient mineral,

            and this rock-

            my rock-

falls to his boots

            and glimmers,

            glimmers in

his acetylene

            harshness.

            It misses

the earth already

            and yearns

            to be itself.

The box speaks,

            “Let it go.

            It is

unknowable.”

            So I let it sail

            into the lake,

listen for the sound –

            spelunk –

            it makes

before it glides

            to itself,

            losing its

softness and

            glimmering,

            glimmering.