at hunt for stroken faces in the bare arboretum will you come
toward the sound of little babies cry wars their screeching
and brawling babble out the corners
from crocheted cars around ice
them flay the idlewalk to test negative salt and motherhood
as, if you've not noted, som've chosen not to do
so what then but to pour close-in
ratcheting various songs around the neck
and little girls skidding 'mom' and 'ittle boys, the same
and strange to see it,
from the house around morose petals the shade garden
loosing strained milken dust up from the table top
i shave it off o thumbnail middle finger
tacked by the door and black soon might fall off
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