A different tongue, you think,
would set you free. Imagine songs
you, disabused of old entanglements,
might sing. But only out of mastery;

As capable a troupe of super-
stars as we could hope for.
But which one, having dressed

My father? He was into shoes.
But also into pins and needles,
pots and pans: a five-and-ten,

I hoist the cat up in the basket of
a forty-foot-long picking pole and give

it a wild ride whipping the pole around

There where occasion has been, a steady snow—
or is it boundlessness
that occasionally drops to the ground

Trees, good new trees, trees that are stitched
into tinware by the sun.

Tanned arms sweep around a pin;

I am pleased to announce
Some of the things
That won’t concern me

I think I saw you once
In another kid’s Easter basket.
Maybe it wasn’t you or wait