The crazy boy is clawing at his mom.
Or does he think she is a tree?
Her trunk twisting backward toward the ground,

a crippled mulberry.
Wicked.  Wicked.  Kicking with his rubber boots,
there are no worlds for him to be

in peace. On something like a hidden track
inside his little hell, he squints an eye
and yells, Let go, let go!, and so she does,

a sob, the tear wiped from her cheek, he's run
across the street, a ratty pompom bobs
on his wool toque, two squirrels ***** a crow

into the sky who caws the same three notes
and settles on a yellow sign that hangs
above his head and warns "No Exit", so

I laugh and look down at my feet to see
a worm tormented by a swarm of ants,
it's spring, a car squeals by, I take a step

towards the brink and beg myself to stop:
I know the boy has gone ahead, I know
the stream descends through hollow rock.