And there will be no

praise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips, or from what I use as lips, the tips of fingers I've let linger without expertise on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease what I can, or they may, from a simple rock. I found it on the spoiled ground I walk, alongside hop-scotch squares chalked to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare concrete. Its smooth brown whisper hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what formed it: not what gravity of years; not the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French academic I read who studied a people at length, and their region others had named. He claimed to know what makes, or made, them different. The same I could say for a taco chain and its bravado at being expert in making flavorless burritos. I'll boast instead of the plastic bear. It's clearly grown better at holding air than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.