I oxen free the door. It is my brain. Through it--birth. No one comes close. And then I swing myself like a monkey around the apartment, happy to be like a monkey. All the childen of my brain are lifeless and should be until I breathe. I go over and touch one by one, set them up along the fireplace like puppets, think, think of tossing them in. I relent. There is no fire. They seem hungry for life in that they do not seem hungry. They are made of words. They are made of things. They are air. I command them. Spin I say, and they do not. I command them, hop. I am a kind master not to beat them into poems. A kind monkey. Why do they not realize? I toss one into the soot to teach it. I will be a teacher of my its, and not a master. I am, I like to be, kind.