Mutter

There is a brand of play called muteness Beneath the play yard’s interlacing branches. It appeals to children born Entre deux guerres, whose specialty it is. It is mutiny; that is, a tongue Of foreign origin ending in grunts. One such child uses his tongue On a frozen fence for the embrace of it For the mutating appendage makes of speech A combat; an internment. There is a brand of child assisted to the play yard By his keeper fussing with his zipper. Yes, it is cold in the high hemisphere And nothing will be the death of him As he sets hard sweets on his tongue He neither chews nor swallows. Such children can never swing too freely From the elm’s loping barkless arm. It is mutual. There is smoke on the air, tarry, Commuting the industry on high As the children simmer within Their word-cloud. And someone or something is calling them home A familiar voice, if they have one.