The tinkerer holds hands with the task
At hand 
A Curiosity, I have brought
An offering. A plea.
a stone, but yielding—faceted—
Inside, just a bit of movement
exactly unlike a clock
in the glowing

From the counter, it looks like guesswork,
Or magic
As they work in a hum, running rasps of scarred fingertips across the 
invulnerable Vulnerable thing 
Cradling then
Picking a spry and sprightly trawling hook from the murky depths that is
Beneath. The hook is
Clean and
Sharp but

Lake Moss trails from the handle like a memory

The tinkerer’s practiced hands are fast
—in out—
& there

An amniotic Plop 
of glowing Top 

Into my palm. Wet. Indelible. Nontransferable. Mine.

The tinkerer holds hungry gaze with fascination.
And knows that payment will be kind.