Radishes

Without touching the want

or the knowing ignorance

a brown shadow brushed me.

I brushed my hair when I needed

to brush.

Told time by the way I smelled.

Space and time expanded

to fill a watery purple void

of knowing ignorance.

I measured the length

of my childhood,

more like saying I judged it,

myself,

continually but without a good rule

to hold it.

And still I held it to me,

unnecessarily,

for many years.

The ownership of property

is an erratic fact,

because revolutions are prone

to interrupt it,

and misers

need good philosophers.

I relied on the faint taste,

as of radishes,

of a wisdom not my own.