My mother placed me under the slide.
Like the dust of Odessa, the parched ground.
This was good.
To learn to identify with the lost and abandoned
To cry with a mother close by.
A shadow turns east as the sun moves west.
The west is always to the left of north
According to words.
But first look at the sidewalk
And see where each shadow ends
Between ten and two it’s not so sharp.
But if you lower and lift your eyes up for many years
You won’t remember the words or care.
Place-names will be put back in the pencil drawer.
That – that day was a fund of undoing.
A flying delivery of evil
Like a bee no longer in air.
The forbidden path where the man strode with covered hands
Has been builded over. You think I don’t know what I’m talking about
But I was there. It was during the War.
He strode down Craigie Street every evening and lured
A little wet-panted Betsy into his flat. She was he said her friend.
Greening or graying depends on the amount of love given to the plant.