Turning, the parting child you contemplate,
house empty, it lays flowers on the stairs,
leaps from the threshold and in that way spares
itself the final step, then shuts the garden gate,

stops being there, because – talitha-cumi – such is fate
that childhood’s grave will never let them go,
its dog, a plush giraffe and its pet crow:
descriptions never cover things’ true state

which themselves – you do not know  their source,
knew you were wordless; you accepted them, of course
so naturally that often in surprise,

if someone asked a name, you’d tell them lies,
reel off some foolish names that  sounded good –
no backward glance; you’d call it if you could.