II FOR MY SON (AET. 7 DAYS)


& with what? How
to do it, to
remember or to invent
so that it all
'll come out. Dear
God there is no
there is no poem
but just this: some
some words coming out
that come out to
to tell you because
no one else will
listen & you are
within this anyway. I
write this to make
to make you come here
& listen that my son's
red face & hunger grasping at
any nipple are what we are
this poem is & you
are not.
Here, here
a net of nonremembrance
& they put up stone.
Time rains green over it.
Every name will go but
it doesn't matter as
they pass like some
old poem no one reads
but a few poets
who will write it
again from memory of
what they never knew
& in that writing
& in your breathing
we know
we both know
what is sustaining & that frail
as our constancy of desire
always new
& always as it was
like light & water
playing over stone
until it goes
but then we're sleeping
(you are:
& there is a quiet final
time for writing
which will include you
include us all.