To go to bed and churn through the night folded
and rent by the sharp lines of half-boiling
dreams as we try our best to imagine
we can forget what we might have had to
make yesterday once the anger of the
morning has faded and our clothes are once
again dry though who would have bet against
the successful failure of the unabridged
chronicles of that self-made hermit whose
hedge maze was never real but the feeling
of being in it turning right or left
faster then much slower has never left
no matter which season finds us deciding
once and evermore to learn how to knit
other animals 