Sure, something got lost when I was four,
but skip ahead to yesterday: I’m walking
home from work, and, boy, was I sapped.
And stopping to look in the window
at Ver Brugge’s Butcher Shop, rotisseries 
jerkily turning away, I counted
every chicken—why?—revolving on the spits.
Twenty-Six! Man! And some so fleshy and new
to the heat you want to hide your eyes;
some (and these are dripping on those) roasted
to such a tee, you’d yank off a leg and eat it now;
and some just solemnly in between,

when one of them said to me, So what

            that what you hoped would take
            must take its place behind what is,
            form is to meditate on form—this rack
            of our rotation, the perilous, oddly lasting self
            —for each, you notice, is dripping on each.    

                                                    and listening,
I became delight, all its possibilities,
is what became of me, my days
and lustered air.