HOW MANY ARE
THE SHAPES OF CORN
I live in a mist. I have half-dreams
that only later turn out to be real;
dress-rehearsals for what's coming,
in a once-worked-over condition
as they arrive. Nothing new
is real on Nottingham Hill.
My brother was a marsh-hawk,
and my sister plaited hair. I had
a father in a dungeon and a
mother always there. Normal
things like that define a life.
It's that time of the season when
raggedy things take root and settle
in, get ready themselves for the
next Spring's growth. in my way
too, I am full of possibilities anew:
A nectar-sap at ready, with a
million things to do.