Out of the ground it springs,
plump, spongy flesh with a wide brim
and pointed tip.
Or should I take the one over yonder, floating on the night black road
beaming silver and tangerine?
Perhaps the shining brass one, left behind by the marching band
complete with player’s spittle.
The daffodil’s trumpet, or the acorn’s cup,
the nightcap of the old magician.
No, no, no!
None of these are suitable for my hat.