A baby cries upon the sand
Aimlessly
In tune with gulls
Floating as still as his mobile.

The cat whips its tail,
A dancer.
A balletomane paw rises and
curls for its ribbon-toy.

Violent *****
Of snowball on window
Boys flee from their projectile
Sliding slowly off with
Unexpected grace

I think I’ve left
You--a clever ****** of words,
a song might be all I’ve lost.

Smooth melody of the kettle.
My mother’s territory. I’m not to touch it: too
Hot, it will burn my still-young hands

The kettle screams. I’m not to pour it,
I will spill and spoil and waste.

The tea sits. I’m not to drink it,
It’s got a vendetta against my tongue,
already bitten, mind boiling.