Landscape in A minor swing set, frozen
twisted shapes, climbing bars ice cast
into weird sculptures, though those are here
as well: giant yellow duck, mounted on an axle
spring from a truck — it’s a rocking duck —
it was all the rage once but still it smiles as
frosted lips blow a kiss from an orange bill.

Since I forgot the craft of poetry, I know,
I can learn a lot
from this off limit crystalline paradise,
no longer place of play. It says, “Terribly,
awfully, your life will end miserably.” That’s
all I need to know — I’m going to create some
thing from anything whenever I want, however I want —
I can be in the dark, without inspiration, miserable,
and all I need to do is sing what is in front of me.

The padded mats to save precious little butts don’t mean much
the sky matters — it is cold, blue and covered in thin white clouds;
that’s poetic;
the sun matters, it is the size of a dime and worth as much —
regrets — I have a few.
This land that stretches between my outstretched arms matters;
all this is mine.
No — it is the time that stretches between these outstretched hands
that matters;

you only belong to what you do.