A Calculus of Readiness

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.