Childhood was largely a museum for the poet in winding lanes , where they go up in the air, at the end ,at their conversation ‘s dead end. Men were at the end of conversations loosely hanging in thin air by their flowing white clothes. Those were ghosts of earlier colored clothes, monkey caps against the biting cold of the hills.
The caps they donned were of monkeys in nose, in the absurd monkey movement, from tree to tree looking for fruit in the cold space of blue winter. They quickly reached end of conversation. At the conversation’s end hung a monkey cap.
The child wore monkey cap on mom’s shoulder. As moms went in the hills there would be dead ends to every conversation, dead ends to every mom.