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September 1963

We’ve been at home four years, in a kind of peace,
A kind of kingdom: brushing our yellow hair
At the tower’s small window,
Playing hop-scotch on the grass.

With twenty other Gullivers
I hover at the door.
Watch you shy through this riddle of primary colors,,
The howling razzle-dazzle of your peers.

Tears, stay with me, stay with me, tears.
Dearest, go: this is what
School is, what the world is.

Have I sewed my hand to yours?

Five minutes later in the eye of God
You and Kate and Jeremy are dancing.

Glad, derelict, I find a park bench, read
Birmingham. Birmingham. Birmingham.
White tears on the white ground.
White world going on, white hand in hand,
World without end.

Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems