There are multiple versions. In one,
the egg salad goes bad, in another—the baby, the bathwater.
In the more recent, running, waving arms,
poultry, and spats to conceal the absence of socks.
The socks have been held back
for puppet production.
In the most recent, the train is choo-choo.
Benign and friendly. We know it's not so but we so wish
to believe. In this one there is also the hint
of a fence and lavender which will stand
for more than a violent resistance to reason.
It also speaks
of spilt ink but it stays
in its contour. It is, in a word, controlled.
How catastrophic can that be?
Clearly, the theory is not without mishap—
especially along the horizon.
And there are unsolved portions
in the right lower quadrant.
A place that tender
To palpation. What you don’t see, you can still feel.
You can, in a word, presume
That at the bottom of the bottomlesss depth,
The band will render splendidly, from sheet music
Not easily found, the famous “On Fine Day”—
In which the watchtower turns
To a lifeguard beneath an umbrella
And seven geese rise from the ashes
Like falcons off forth on swing, night falling
Down around the waning.