child poem

as i lie roofed in, screened in
long ago, in the young moonlight
the agony of having too much power
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
what was it the engines said
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
softly now the light of day
from floor to ceiling
i stand in the cold gray weather
quietly, with reverance, in awe
let me move slowly through the street