for a long, long time I wrote no fresh poems
and then, just now, there was this...


In the morning
when my son’s cherub face smiles down
from his high bed  

—his gently wandering eye synced by night,
but still puffed with sleep—

he slurs his morning,
smooth like a jazz-drum-stop.
Muted, like a deliberate lie
as he declares the peace
of a no-dream-night.


But though I know
and see
I let it go.

I say okay, fine, I’m glad.
Because who wants morning tears?
Who wants fears,
shining back?

Better the placid blur,
the tight smile,
the subtle wave from his tiny fingers
receding into his high bed,

fading off into the sky.


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