I have fallen through air wisp of cotton –
bandages of meaning – down and into the pink
wobbly arms of my idealized expectations.
I have lost control of my child wonder – animately
balloons float over garrisons walls – over it’s yard,
straining to recognize the debt-filled faces of men
building a tower.
Two stitched together blue men exit on throw-
away tricycles. They are racing, they are speeding,
they have made their way to my place. They come
not to hear an explanation, or to count the cups in
my cupboard – they come because they fear the
potency, the fertility, and the power of a non
conforming mind in a body capable of (e)motion.
What lets us know to search out and make appointments
with the footmen – life’s cleaners and polishers, and give
over to them our seed boxes, our dark jars of dirt? When
did we become volunteers – attending members of their
cheering sections, betting on tricycles and blue stitched
Again, again, and again?