What is that?

Every day Otto asks me a thousand times what things are. He knows now that everything has a name, but not that the names stay the same. He points at an object several times with the same quizzical/hopeful expression each time. In order to be the patient parent I pretend to be, I imagine my answers as experimental poetry and mentally collect the accidental groupings of things. Today;

Goose.

Goose.

Goose.

Goose.

Goose.

Goose’s foot.

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