Everyday words become surprising: ducks, zoo, new, stalk, wrinkle... The final two lines end with the mournful, wailing "ar" sound, apt noises for the sad turn the poem takes. Beautiful.
Child
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
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