An hour ago,
I was a child of fables,
pokeweed.
A tongue roller,
chewer of grass―
I could graft an oak from a twig.
Meanwhile, it's another o'clock;
acorns drop from grown trees.
The moon bellows baritone;
omits the chorus,
replaces it with zees.
Vitruvian sweetness finds me,
springing spreadeagle―
wheel of
honeysuckle.
I forget sleep;
shake out the pillowcase,
wrap it around my head
for a babushka―
sound a
klaxon,
hail a hackney carriage.
Get to Falkirk.
*A Game of Patience, 1937 by Meredith Frampton
