Tiny

it gives me peace to see myself
as minuscule, the way i am;

i look at stars and notice
how they circle in their place:

beauty as precursor, and conclusion
to the whole of human life.

those silent lights, whose origins
span galactic distance, unimagined

in quiet grace above our chaos
might be dead, might have died 

long before our mothers saw them shine.






March 2020

The Adult

When I wake from sleep in the night
There are no parents downstairs.
Their heavy room
Held to the earth by its large wooden desk
And strewn about with school papers,
Business letters, documents with numbers—
Does not belong here.
They are not slumbering in their bed
Listening for us, to keep us
Safe and obedient:
It is only my wife and our children
Whose breaths I can hear; no adults;
We small children now fend for ourselves.
So I have gathered for myself
A heavy wooden desk, and many papers;
And I sleep with one ear always listening—
But deep at night
I still creep about the house
Curtained by its dark shadows,
The only child out of bed, and wonder
If my father ever felt the same.






March 2020

Lifting

We are inclined
to lift each other by the hand
—when are we taught else?








March 2020