Call the Hobbler, that crude hive, spilked
Large in hoard and deed, heath hoared
And shoveled, hair bathed in gravel, mead.
Hobbler, will you bake in your mind
A speechcake? The beginning of life
Palpitates in you, milds. The Hobbler
Frightens children; she is hungry as grass.
But she bears treats for us, her maw-sighs
Make a stinging symphony. The Hobbler
Is a princess, too: her cats, the Minkles,
Commune with trash, and she watches
TV through their aluminum antennae.
How joyous it is to be the Hobbler!
She rides a moose into the garden and thinks,
And everything she watches thinks, too.
When night comes, she is cold and blue.
Every morning, she lives again. Her true
Wonder, though, is this: No one made her.
Neither in space nor sky nor soil was she born
To mother or father. She boiled from her own brain
Once—and spoke, and then spoke again.