A cleared place in the woods, where in spring
I would pull up the leaf floor and allow the grass to begin—
Where rocks were chairs, moss cushioned,
I played at house,
already in the game of willed innocence.
In this wood, in this spring, I suddenly see,
tall and preposterous among the beeches,
that costumed character from Captain Kangaroo,
Dancing Bear. At first I think I see him
with a partner (designated by the curtain ruffle
stitched about her middle as Girl Bear) but then she is gone,
and he is alone, only miming his partner
as he did on the show. Soft-shoeing is
of course all he can do with those paws,
and he moves to deep bow, a sort of heel-scrape
to indicate pavane, are we about to have
the history of dancing here, will he
spin on his axis in padded gavotte?
That bear, he has no mouth—only a darker disc of felt
flat against his lower face, meant for a snout, perhaps,
but more like a mouth in constant gape,
for he cannot speak.
Do you remember? Too tall; in retrospect I see
the head must be some sort of mitre,
and just visible are the man-ghost’s elbows and knees
punching angles in the soft cloth
of his improbable hide. Did we ever believe he was
a bear? Never did he look less one than now,
stumbling on the rocks, dead leaves
clinging, this is loneliness,
a shuffled leap to flubbed entrechat, he can no more
attend my cry that he can sing whatever tune
it is he hears.