Flowers a dull pink and out of stories. 

The clown in the middle of town
dances but only when the streetlights

go blank. Children puff through

the window in a way that makes their faces
an inner god. I have all these chairs

I cannot use. Only the belonging

they beg for. Consider a dead oven
then consider freedom. A heavy kite

could touch Jupiter if Jupiter existed.

Any child could become a swan 
song. It doesn’t take long to weather.

Copyright © 2021 by Philip Schaefer. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 18, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.