This edge has no edge to it.
One of its echoes went out walking
and has never returned.
And what happens to the letters
and bright parcels sent there?

This bit is a ball bouncing.
This bit is a stick
running after a dog.
Which reminds me of cardboard
and zippers, of plantains
soaking in the dark brine of rum.
I'm thinking cocoa leaves and emeralds.

And this hinge doesn't know
its squeaks from its creaks.
It's like an unfinished meteorite.
It's a blanket of moonstones.
It's a tool for smelling flowers.

You can see the confusion, can't you?
The once-gamesome now hagridden,
laid low by the choices of man.
Like a planetoid's guts swelling.
The mass-illusions shattered.

And this part, which is the wrong part.
Its hidden chambers. Its lists.
Its secret door into the netherworld.
The wood badly warped from the sun.
And the drawers sticking.