Everywhere I write it: "On a piece of paper. . . On my looking-glass and on snow. . . "; "On the air/ I write it/ And no one can see it/ But I know it's there." Touseled Kate Greenaway miss or plump Indian maid or neighborhood boy: "On my finger nails small skies/ On pitchers of milk/ I write it/ On carousels/ On park benches/ On shells." Where skyscrapers loom and planes loop-the loop, where shaggy donkeys graze, and "On you, waves/ I write it/ I write my name." Without punctuation or termination, without limitation of time or place, nimbly, buoyantly. . . jubilantly asserting the me that is Felicity or Isaac or Pedro or Sean (from the multilingual signatures on the last page).
