The grill is wrapped tight against the autumn sprinkler

the lawn mowers are guttural cloistered and cloacal

like old gems polishing in the tumbler

or a furious air battle over a humanless sea

like one last air show pass

and all the children point

gasp—will he be all right? and the pilot leaps

I can’t see the work from my room

where I keep the baby’s calendar

try to be the first and last word

they are like waking from deep sick sleep

like the wrong body in the bed

the through time of loving electrical and ongoing

busy beneath the skin and deafened

it is why my son sleeps with one ear to my chest

and will soon stop thinking to

as language begins to fall apart midair