From behind the sun, out of the fiery lap of a particle storm
he landed below this reading lamp
and immediately charged from one room to the next,
pennants streaming from shoulder blades,
and on the cloak, the early germs of identity
small enough to fit in a teaspoon.

Meadow and speedwells under his eyelids, what did he set out to do?

To build a race track, then to kneel down
on frail grass knees
in front of his toys.