Such inertia, there can be no beginning.
A newborn in a horse trough: what can he lose?
Your father is God, you glow a little in the dark.
Better to love the dead or never love?
Why is God so stingy with the offspring?
The child is one of us
but glows a little in the dark.
And maybe is enough:
his raw talent phenomenal,
his play described routinely as “next level.”
Coachable, too, from without and within.
Miracles? What else are we?
Eye sees, ear hears; memory travels
between kinds of smells.
He handles his hardships
literally perfectly, is the idea.
We are to aim for that
and miss by a forgiveable margin.
That we can handle.
God hurting and stunned, as it was written.
Helpless and counting on human milk.
The days are gifts, and miracles never cease.
We all glow a little in the dark.
A membrane seals the sky:
a bag of stars and airplanes.
A giant word bubble full of sighs.