Archibald MacLeish, We Love You!
Or maybe it’s D. W. Winnicott we love.
Kindly squints and black ties make us happy, if we ever
have been happy, which probably we were in childhood
when we learned to tell lies and walk around with our faces.
“Big whoop” was all we could muster. Our muscles bent
over thick bones. We were all forecast and goldenrod,
mobile as dice, really nothing more than fungal,
but feisty and robust and always nipping at the bus
standing on the bridge fat and skinny. This was life.
This was being alive, a cloud of knowing and
not-knowing. A cloud of counting the barks of a chained
dog for messages. Bark twice if you hear me speaking
to you in my head. Bark! Bark! Moderate swing tempo.
Water is good for the lungs. If you hear me singing it could be
someone asking you to come home or twist into a new shape.
The circumstances are clear though the results are not
always available. I am steady as a gutter. I am lifted and profane.
I lack only lack.