Second Childhood

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White quartz.

Some green mermaid’s tears.

(A cask of bottles shattered.)

That home of mine

lost four inches

to erosion and great white sharks

but we kept floating.

I even found bedside stones

to play with in the night.

A colorful set to pretend

I could now see Ireland

from Boston.

Christmas is for children

on an English hill.

Simple, dismal,

and blissful,

a few little balls and crystal.

Dark by 4 p.m.

but you can ride your scooter

up the hill and down

in the arctic rain

each drop a dimple

on a—

and a silver handle

in a drain and a boy

can stand beside your hand

at the window

of a store full of cribs

and tinsel

before an icon

of the infant

with the news

rolled in his hand.

Odense is in Denmark and where are we now?

In a flying sleigh en route to Odessa.

The Black Sea is steaming below.

We sweep like snow-crystals every which way.

We who? My baby and me.

Off to the left, the sky is fleece.

In our warm sleigh and north of Norway,

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