Though I’m precious not all my thoughts are
of my own hand. So with my father’s hand
writing I acquired imagination in small caps.
My letters bubbled up the page in many large
accidents. I had his teeth to grind them away.
It wasn’t my imagination that licked my stout
heart clean. But the poem I wrote that firmed
up looping good. Because I had throttled all
the cold out & had the cold put away. Put away
the ice cream cones! Summer has died! Once again
my diabolical angels turn down the dark road
I do not know then scatter across my dreams
waking me with their sharp clear words . . . Still
how wonderful it is to experience those old
etchings which hadn’t softened for me before
& harden for me still. All those cloudform
imaginings made by pencilled smears. Always
leading to the place where all I imagine as new
slip & leap in previously treasured almost ways.