When I was a child br there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. br All day she peered from her second story br window br from behind the wrinkled curtains br and sometimes she would open the window br and yell: Get out of my life! br She had hair like kelp br and a voice like a boulder. br br I think of her sometimes now br and wonder if I am becoming her. br My shoes turn up like a jester's. br Clumps of my hair, as I write this, br curl up individually like toes. br I am shoveling the children out, br scoop after scoop. br Only my books anoint me, br and a few friends, br those who reach into my veins. br Maybe I am becoming a hermit, br opening the door for only br a few special animals? br Maybe my skull is too crowded br and it has no opening through which br to feed it soup? br Maybe I have plugged up my sockets br to keep the gods in? br Maybe, although my heart br is a kitten of butter, br I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. br Yes. It is the witch's life, br climbing the primordial climb, br a dream within a dream, br then sitting here br holding a basket of fire.