It is time for the others to come.
This child is no more than a god.
No cars are moving this night.
The lights in the houses go out.
I put these out with the rest.
From his crib, the child begins
To shine, letting forth one ray
Through the twelve simple bars of his bed
Down into the trees, where two
Long-lost other men shall be drawn
Slowly up to the brink of the house,
Slowly in through the breath on the window.
But how did I get in this room?
Is this my son, or another's?
Where is the woman to tell me
How my face is lit up by his body?
It is time for the others to come.
An event more miraculous yet
Is the thing I am shining to tell you.
This child is no more than a child.
from The Whole Motion: Collected Poems
