I: Sprouts

In spring when the world
is mudluscious wonderful--yeh--

three small boys were playing,
saying their maleness in shouts against
a young woman smooth skinned
and blonde tossing a frisbee and
spinning them through gentle parabolas into ever­-
mounting bounds of freedom,
hysterical tornados of fresh-cheeked
joy snatching air till the smallest male
burst with the kind of total wail
of bereavement that only the very
young holds in their lungs or trained
female mourners in certain
cultures can impersonate--because a larger
boy had taken his stick and laughed
and leapt and trumpeted and
brandished it up and before
himself because I have it and
you don't and (roar) I am
Pete (sweet female reason) give Jimmy
back his stick and with no loss of beat
in his wild dance skipped pirouettes
and speared the stick with easy
elated scorn beyond the small dong's
reach because I am and you aren't.
The patient vulvaic presence is at ease because

(a) boys will be boys

and

(b) civilization can be pleased.