Little Boy

If I sit still enough,
Sit long enough, he comes
And back I fall.

                  To wasps,
And stickers, and the taste
Of sugared lemon biscuits
Spoiling on the tongue
While carcasses of Autumn
Leaves go dragging over
Curbs.

            To pawprints, in
A frozen tunnel dug
In snow by tiny reddened
Fingers after weeping
Over beaten dogs,
And unsuspecting snails,
And broken glass, and blood.

      To spiteful playgrounds, games
Of piss and razors, worms
In half, and hiding hot
Behind the staircase, watching
Sunlight pulverise
A sad relentless noon
Where dizzy adults, bland
And suited, went a-searching
For the little boy
Who sat still
And sat long
And knew how
To make things
Stop.