and take the one with the leaking roof.

Rain like curly hairpins
blows on Lizzie and Clara's two heads
turned like one head--
two mouths
spread into one laugh.
Lizzie is saying:
why don't you want to play--
when you feel you'd like to braid
the crinkled-silver rain
into a shining rope
to climb up... and up... and up... into the wet sky
and never see any one again.

Our gate doesn't hang right.
It must have pawed at the wind
and gotten a kick
as the wind passed over.
The sitting sky
puffs out a gray smoke
and the wind makes a red-striped sound
blowing out straight,
but our gate drags its foot
and whines to itself on one hinge.

: :

What do you think I've found--
two wee knickers of fairy brass,