childhood (for Timothy Joyce)

                       

                                                                    We awoke in those days
                                                                    with our bellies swelling in
                                                                  private palm-grips of enthusiasm.

                                                                   The bus was a yellow flag screeching
                                                                           to life our hungry allegiance.

                                                                  Life was a finely tuned sound.  A seamless
                                                                 coat, worn, buttoned by an endlessly forgiving
                                                                                           lifeforce.

                                                                 And we wore the steamed dawn
                                                                         climbed the sharp sunrise
                                                                         
                                                                         ate the straying lilypads.