For Ray Bradbury

This childhood’s Eve,

the firebugs chirrup

on the windowsill;

I lay listening in

white foam sheets,

like an air-tuft amid

the ocean’s wake,

and I lay listening,

my ears turned inside-out,

watching the full trees

dance with the maiden wind,

as all around my head

goblin-shadows gather

with  heat-forks and

Moonlight-daggers,

and I lay listening,

thinking, “There is no

such thing as oldness;

it’s all an adult-lie,

a trick Mom-Dad use

get me to eat my broccoli.”