Green wooden leaves
clap light away,
Severely practical, as
they Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles
flicker, fail . . .
The showman’s face is
cubed clear as
The shapes reflected in a glass
Of water—(glog, glut,
a ghost’s speech
Fumbling for space
from each to each).
The fusty showman
fumbles, must
Fit in a particle of dust
The universe, for fear
it gain
Its freedom from my
cube of brain.
Yet dust bears seeds
that grow to grace
Behind my crude-
striped wooden face
As I, a puppet tinsel-
pink
Leap on my springs,
learn how to think—
Till like the trembling
golden stalk
Of some long-petalled
star, I walk
Through the dark
heavens, and the dew
Falls on my eyes and
sense thrills through.
Ayietim Blog 