The Museum of Childhood

They are hard, and peach across. Or they
flutter down into their nightly rest unharmed.
What can fear tell them how thickens the air,
unhampered by any sleep goes out barefoot, tries
mounds bristled dry around deleted uses.
Rebound into the messed up chorus, a child
sitting on or hanging from every branch, black faced
and hollering with hunger. Look around at the vents
of shired quadrangles, parking spots of a world
never on loan, always over there, and just so now,
as the switch of eye flicks open a bus window.
Go little cadet, you have no more time
and dance around the stumps and nets in grace,
even then seeing the veil come off like a vest
at the rec, fake coins fluttering around the brim.
Oh how vain you are, icy with wheels and frills,
seeing yourself abounding everywhere: the swing links,
the drain, the tennis balls that scream through the air.
Nothing will snap shut, but only emptied
and fall open like a big pouch; then to write
in recompense, tag the remaining of the numbered scripts.