by May Swenson

    In the pond in the park

    all things are doubled：

    Long buildings hang and

    wriggle¹ gently. Chimneys

    are bent² legs bouncing

    on clouds below. A flag

    wags like a fishhook

    down there in the sky.

    The arched stone bridge

    is an eye， with underlid

    in the water. In its lens

    dip crinkled heads with hats

    that don't fall off. Dogs go by，

    barking on their backs.

    A baby， taken to feed the

    ducks， dangles³ upside-down，

    a pink balloon for a buoy⁴.

    Treetops deploy⁵ a haze⁶ of

    cherry bloom for roots，

    where birds coast belly-up

    in the glass bowl of a hill；

    from its bottom a bunch

    of peanut-munching children

    is suspended by their

    sneakers， waveringly.

    A swan， with twin necks

    forming the figure 3，

    steers⁷ between two dimpled

    towers doubled. Fondly

    hissing⁸， she kisses herself，

    and all the scene is troubled：

    water-windows splinter，

    tree-limbs tangle⁹， the bridge

    folds like a fan.

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