Youre

 Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish.
 A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.

Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.

Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.


Vague as fog and looked for like mail.

Farther off than Australia.

Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.

Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.

A creel of eels, all ripples.

Jumpy as a Mexican bean.

Right, like a well-done sum.

A clean slate, with your own face on.

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