I am in the backyard, if you need me
touched and tossing with other refuse until I can come
to know the differance, free like an arrow
released about the open margins trying
to enter meaning suspended in wonder-sheaths
of debris of new teeth and new ways
to claim with strings of beads threading
like a train of camels where in time
the caravan of language grows, and strength
to the point where I can say I can run,
splattered with backyard dirt entering pores
and nostrils grave from exposureas if sick
even sunk still in the smell of trees steel insects
grass underbrush and cardboard as I grow
and years cumulate years later when thought will mature
by traces fit to love the sense of good
these proximities with the open ground
intent on small traces shaping trajectories
will answer when you called, asked, as I sat closed
to the world beyond mine draped in mud,
'What are you doing?','Nothing Mother,', did I say
'just playing'? Did I seem absurdly meaningful
that you let me be and later said, 'Just come and take a bath'?