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by Mark Granier
—for Samantha and Simon
1
Watching sea and sky
darken and simplify,
I think of what's now in hand;
the stubby, white plastic wand
you drew from your handbag to show
(in its recessed, thumbnail window)
two, clear-blue lines,
one light, one darkly defined:
a skipped heartbeat, a stone
out of sight, over the known
peaceable old horizon
I had rested my eyes on.
***
Now he is sounded, swept
into webbings of light,
restless, more and less real,
metaphors on a roll,
none clearer than the top
of his skull: oval, a raindrop
let go, falling on course,
eye to eye with the Earth
dreaming up sun, moon, stars...
in its hammock of waters.
2
Stroking his forehead, I found it
by accident, that soft spot
under the skin, where the young bone
knits... knits... knits...
His lopsided, premature smile
is a quiver of pain. He is all
there, solid, a touchstone
in touch, a part of the main.
3
This how I find he has nosed
his spreading taproot down
into my days.
I come to
in my old pose, at a window,
lightly swaying from foot
to foot,
as if nursing more
than a paperback (his warm bulk);
surprised then to find our rock-
aby rhythm—the day itself,
gentled,
cradling my old head—
even in prose. |
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