Autobiography to Foundlings

I run from the house into the park
a grass pleasure. I'll pour out

tonight my talked-to and just allow moist
bechamel to slither my plate the tart

feast. Some linen that napkin thrumming
the notice surrenders to others.

How could I start that converse within window
sashes dressed those ghosts the stately elms?

So I rushed from the dinner onto the street. Oh
no you're right I didn't. I struggle in a little

cage of word orders passing creamed
corn the peppers and scallions.

The light of candles scalds air nearest flame-
pure wicks and wax trembling.

Don't say 'con-verse.' Just grow new
speech on elm trees the grass and emerald

blades these trivia cannot hold.
You have a nascent mouth.