A Calculus of Readiness

    A small palm is my umbrella.

    This takes care of above

    but below， the blind river of sadness rolls

    on and in it， a hand is always reaching up

    to pick fish from the night-time sky.

    The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout

    with a strand of hair from the head of a doll.

    The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow.

    Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll.

    The plants eyeing each other is all.

    I would not call the stars generous.

    They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me.

    They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow

    yet leaf faces watch the open window

    where they hang far and hard.

    The rein of starlight a second hand

    with which to play Go Fish.

    Now Give me a hand， plants. Now give me

    good-night， stars.