Stick and Strings

One morning his crib is an open handful of pick-up sticks
Around his fallen mattress. In how many nights?
He has unwound the metal bolts and nuts and washers
And drawn out the several rods that help hold it together . . .

A waist-high web of string
Meets me this morning, but
Where is he gone now? Sleeping
Or walking with a string’s end in his fist?
I see he has walked from doorknob to doorknob
To cabinet door to doorknob to cabinet door, every one on the floor.

His pattern of walking is woven behind him, so hard and carefully knotted

At each knob and handle and drawer pull, there is no advance possible
Toward him. It is a morning’s work to undo this
And a tantrum and a resistance not to be
Met with, I hope, too very often.
I hope he does not repeat this.
As I fear he will repeat this.
I do not want to repeat this.