THE OGRE

Sweet child,

little girl with well shaped legs

you cannot touch the thoughts

I put over and under and around you.

This is fortunate for they would

burn you to an ash otherwise.

Your petals would be quite curled up.

This is all beyond you — no doubt,

yet you do feel the brushings

of the fine needles;

the tentative lines of your whole body

prove it to me;

so does your fear of me,

your shyness;

likewise the toy baby cart

that you are pushing —

and besides, mother has begun

to dress your hair in a knot.

These are my excuses.