Here is a child wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once She is
not sick
She is not fever-rich
She juts out into the world so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature
She can’t buy all the poetry books
She has a different kind of money
She is a strider Admire her
So she goes with all the trees All hold their arms
high open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods
She but no longer a girl
She walks between them All the insane openness
of the arms A cold bitter
A martini of cold
With an olive of colder
It is a madness of the trees
God, the earth is a mattress
and nothing more
