A baby cries upon the sand
In tune with gulls
Floating as still as his mobile.
The cat whips its tail,
A balletomane paw rises and
curls for its ribbon-toy.
Of snowball on window
Boys flee from their projectile
Sliding slowly off with
It's pretty difficult to throw a snowball at a fifth floor window, I'll give them that.
I think I’ve left
You--a clever ****** of words,
a song might be all I’ve lost.
Or, maybe a few too many Saturdays...
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.
My mother was pretty overprotective when I was growing up, and she hasn't entirely outgrown it.