Early Psychoanalytic Poem

O my so-
O my boy, my child—
My sweet, sweet ruse!
You are better doing what you do
There in your crib—your cot—
For the audience shall think what they want; so why
Hold it in (and he kicks and he kicks and he kicks
And changes tact) when you need not mask
The glory, the light,
The unmasked bushel of you (scores!); and why
Be down and insecurely fastened
When you can fan your arms (for are you not
Flapping now?) and not give two flyings?

You will curb yourself, blessed one,
Looking at all that guff, you will,
You will; but it is not your drama
To play out: the multiplicity of this thing
Is freeing! Why bother to bother? The distinctive art
Is phony, too, itself, you know; so do not pain
Oneself for the ultimate enclosure. Still

Covered up though, aren’t you. You psychoanalytic
Feast you: stop hiding! I know you aren’t
Really
In that little bed. You know it’s never really been made (but something
Is being so).