I hope to retire in the village
of heavy-headed children,
the off-balance boys and girls
who run with their faces pitched forward
along muddy paths in the brilliance
after rain.
To retire, and live alone
except for the children,
with their gasping, their red foreheads
(wide and red with worrisome play),
running in circles nearby, in the lanes
or the town square
with the broken dryad fountain.
They snore like old men at night
and shatter the day with rules and cries.
Their heads are too much for their bones.
