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Stranger things
The story of things that won’t be whipped, the stories
which have tripped you like the baby on your doorstep.
There was a stange noise, you’d opened, the dog’d strained
nearly toppling the drawer in which it slept. Then the egg
and the cream, and the dog with her looks, the policeman,
the drawer, and the girl in the books. It takes a lot to laugh
but a train to cry or hoot at least at the baby, the one you
never wanted now it’s here at your door with the storm
of onions that arrived on the beach, a roof in the paddock
the carpet of weeds. This morning a farmer was saved by a cow
and the baby’s arms stretched out to the dog. And what could you do
once it had appeared, this summer of questions, this summer of clouds
what could you do but float down the street with the couch
pray the hill doesn’t fall, kiss the baby the baby the baby after all.
