This is the sort of poem I meant not to write many of,
in which you see the son of the poet in adorable attitudes.
There are three parts.
It's called "Illuminations."
There's a reach.
[LAUGHTER]
I'll pause between the sections.
My son stands in the snow in his blue snow suit,
all around him stubble--
the brown degraded bushes.
In the morning air, they seem to stiffen into words.
And between the white steady silence,
a wren hops on the airstrip under the sill--
drills for sustenance, then spreads its short wings--
shadows dropping from them.
Last winter, he could barely speak.
I moved his crib to face the window.
In the dark mornings, he would stand and grip the bars
until the walls appeared, calling light--
light-- that one syllable in demand for recognition.
He sits at the kitchen window with his cup of apple juice.
Each tray forms where he left it--
leafless, trapped in his breath.
How clear their edges are, no limb
obscured by motion, as the sun rises cold and single
over the map of language.