was the last poor rag of babyhood:
way his bed stank like a fox's set;
easy flow of innocence he could
fall from him while all his body slept.
do him wrong to colonize his dreams!
we afford to lose that alienness,
strange, limestone-bright coasts, lands without
brush away his wilds with a caress?
he sat up in the barber's chair
like a businessman, and smiled with such
lopsidedness that I laughed there
the saloon to see this Stan Laurel, much
his face wide open, his cropped hair;
afterwards could scarce forbear to touch.
April Wind, © 1991. Reprinted by
of University Press of Virginia.