Sunday, February 13, 2011


But listen, I want to tell you all about
the crustacean stubbornness, the
antennae that can grip like ropes, the mouth parts
working unceasingly: an Edisonian dream
of perpetual motion, a mother's dream
of careful chewing. I was always a good boy.

And listen: I want to tell you how the blue sky
came and said that stealing wasn't bad,
not when the sun is high;
that candy wants to be stolen,
that God made the tongue to
curl around theft in a special way.
When they cried “stop thief!” I was sure
they wanted my autograph, or maybe
a cure for the king's evil. I ran like the wind:

but that was just the delight of my heart.
And here, where the dark polished wood of the railing
matches exactly the police batons, where
jurors sit on uncomfortably pleated underwear,
not daring to shift, and the lights buzz
and wail like a distant Indian singer,
here I still remember the joyful lift of my heels

when I flew ahead of you all, and none of you,
none of you could catch me.

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