Exotic to me as pandas, these familiar
bandits; Sexton’s whig emblems and
woman chasers, who can turn door
knobs and release zippers. Hooligans,
routers. Tax collectors after a feast,
romping over their napkins. A raccoon’s poem,
Snyder says, amazes you with the mess
it makes. Stegosaurus-humped, when
not so happy. Panzer-like—someone
else said that. And this mother
and her little ones, a caterpillar
approaching the moonlit bench
and down again. Where
did he go and
why won’t he
come back?