SEVEN
Later, he will grow into his teeth
and the graces will grant
my son a sense of proportion.
Then he won’t collapse like the slain
resigning a plastic sword. Then night
will not ambush him nightly
at his book’s best part. Then he will eat
his crusts. Yes, and eating an apple,
he will eat the bruise in the apple.
Later, the furies will grant
my son a sense of proportion.
Then he won’t crow
that suns set on his nails.
And won’t abscond in church
to rush a stained-glass God.
He’ll know then
that stigmata can’t be plugged
like dikes by fingertip
but he will not know, my fair
boy, what to do
with his son
who will turn
urgent from the gouts in God’s hands
to ask if they are jam.
TYPO
30
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