To a ChildóDrawing

 

Dear Heart

who made a circle bird

there on a purple tree,

who opened the houses

and flattened the steps,

give the truth back to me.

 

In your town now

the great-rayed sun

rolls on solid grass;

on streets that go from

down to up, big-headed

people pass. It seems

I used to live there

once: I saw just what I

knew, not caring what the

others said,

or if they saw it too.