from up close:
weaving of limbs

          and what green
and such sky

          and voices lulled
low. Each one

          notes the other
along song-shaped

          lines, discovers
sight-reading

          is the closest we get
to love

          if by love we mean
knowing when

          to close our eyes.
Somewhere

          nearby
my son

          is pointing
at the moon

          saying
ball, ball, ball

          until eyes
close and

          and
and I look:

The boy in the cedar tree sees the pattern left on the lawn by mowing, sees, for the first time, how narrow is the stretch of life between house and sidewalk, sees the robin looking up, as he himself looks up each day to gauge weather or wind, as we now look at them, boy above, bird below, and above them both, I’ll put it there now, a ball.

          We incline from line
to line, from room

          to room
but in truth there is

          no word.
Each move, an offering

          of might
against might, but

          what with robin
boy and toddler

          this I
is outnumbered.

          The street
blurs to life,

          a passing car,
robin hops

          to garden wall.
It’s all I can do

          to keep boy
from falling

          ball from rolling
into a ditch.

          And then – see
how the sounds

          insert themselves
even on days

          when it isn’t
about them – it becomes

          clear it all
must end

          in a kind
of wordlessness.

          To close
your eyes

          at the wrong time
can be murder,

          but at the right
time, ah…