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Sport 40: 2012

Infanta in the Gravel Shower

page 273

Infanta in the Gravel Shower

Forget the tulip bed, its blinding red explosion,
The rain of debris in the green, the shrapnel
Of spattering carmine. Here come
The haptic joys: the gravel path’s gravel,
The drizzle of pebbles through the finger sieve.
The infanta is she, and the park is all hers.

Take the lorgnons from your eyes. No longer
Marvel at boscages and boxwood beasts
Hunting in sunlight. For she has awoken—
And knows what to do: collecting and weighing
The pebbles, with her left hand, her right,
As though counting beans. Then it bursts out!
She throws up her arms, the sky rips asunder,
In a twitter of sparrows. With eyes all asparkle
She sits in the gravel shower laughing and laughing.