I play with LEGO, so I know
everything that happens
either blows the world apart
or builds it anew, day by day,
brick by brick. Sometimes, after
the dark whirlwind of chaos—my baby
brother—arrives hurling everything
beautiful to the ground in a shower
of plastic confetti, I scramble to put it all back
just the way it was. Through tears,
guarding blocky remains from scavengers,
I turn and fit and reconfigure them
until sooner than is fair, I can't even recall
how it felt in my hand, where that piece belongs,
how it all held together in the first place.
At that moment, spinning in time, I know
in my child's imagination that nothing,
nothing again will be as good as what I lost.