IN PRAISE OF CHILDISHNESS

If you stare at the trees through a screen,

you see an impressionist painting

and you are nearly a child again. Then

you would squint up your eyes

making shapes that are weird,

odd sounds with your mouth.

You’d laugh at faces you make in the mirror,

belch, fart, pretend to fart

with your hand under your armpit,

put Polly noses on your nose

and butter cups under your chin.

At thirteen you stop doing

these things; by the time

you graduate high school,

you are utterly boring.