Shall I roll the universe
into a ball?
Shall I roll you in between
my fingers, back and
forth and forth?
I’ll squeeze you from my hands
rather than wash them.
Rub you, oily dirt, away;
long skinny round and fat
pieces of clay.
Shall I slowly slide
you against my thumb,
tormenting, crushing,
and finally drop you,
flick you, fleck of nose crust,
invisible hidden
in the thick carpet at my feet?
Should I scrape you off my fingers?