People will say he is not complex.
He looks for only good.
They will say,
“What a child! After all
that has paraded
past our eyes
over the centuries.”
As though we don’t imagine history,
heightening line and color, leaving
most things out, cartoon-like,
till it hangs
like those mobiles that fasc-
inate babies in their cribs.
Not one of them know me who say this.
Not one has traveled the dark streams
nor knows the withered vines
I’ve slept beneath—slept enough
to know when I