Once after school, hobbling from place to place, | 	I remember you liked the dry kind of cookies | 	with only a little sugar to flavor them. | 	  |         I remember that you liked Wheatena. | 	You were the only person I knew who did. | 	Don’t you remember how we used to fish for kelp? | 	Got to the town with the relaxed, suburban name, | 	Remembering how trees were green there, | 	Greener than a sudden embarrassed lawn in April. | 	How we would like to live there, | 	and not in a different life, either.  We sweltered | 	along in our union suits, past signs marked “Answer” | 	and “Repent,” and tried both, and other things. | 	  |         Then—surprise!  Velvet daylight | 	came along to back us up, providing the courage | 	that was always ours, had we but | 	known how to access it downstairs. | 	We used to crawl to so many events together: a symphony | 	of hogs in a lilac tree, and other, possibly even more splendid, | 	things until the eyelid withdrew.  | 	  |         Now I can sample your shorts. | 	So much more is there for us now— | 	runnels that threaten to drown the indifferent one | 	who sticks his toe in them. | 	Much, much more light. | 	  |         To whose office shall we go tomorrow? | 	I’d like to hear the new recording of clavier | 	variations.  Oh, help us someone! | 	Put out the night and the fire, whose backdraft | 	is even now humming her old song of antipathies.