Exposition

by DavidKM

Exposition

This is the one,
this one here in the basket,
I raise it up in the market of worlds,
it is a round one, and blue,
with the four limbs of it painting a tune
on the air; its cries mixing into the hubbub,
its scent greening my melody,
its ears pricking up at mine,
at the chorus caught in my clothing.

Basket-held no more, it babels and burbles,
seeking the linguistic frequency of me,
of my carried scents and sense,
of that which is of me,
of that which is with me,
marking not the city outside the train,
outside the wall that plays at window,
the city that rises on the heated air
to the wind that takes it where it will,
that takes me where it will also,
takes the babe where organs of olfaction
may classify all and all.

Thru the door of a Good House,
not the house of me, but of mine,
and may be of the blue laughing thing
that swings its basket in with me,
that laughs at the doors of things,
at the floors and walls of things,
laughs at the portraits, blue,
laughs at the greeters, blue,
sets the basket on a table and clasps
blue hands, blue bodies, in greeting,
while I snuggle into my wicker warmth,
and laugh myself blue.