In dawn’s first-laugh fireburst, When Logic slips in dewy grass And stains his knees a skipping green, My number is seven in a new breeze, My mind is soda-pop bubbles, My body a plastic delight.

A supercharged seven of hearts throatpurrs My motorcycle along the walks, Snarls it down the steepest hill, And sun-shout days clatter by, A picket run along a picket fence That runs a million miles—

Until he stands erect, and stiffly Brushes nonsense from his clothes.