80.

My son doesn’t like to go to sleep

or wake up: he defers both moments

like a commuted sentence, picking up

a ball, chasing an enemy of the screen

pressing all the butons, moving from room

to room, or, once asleep, not really wanting

to leave the world he seemed to dread

the night before. Dream, fancy, fantasy

imagination all ill-defined define

the shadows the sun chases across

his face. The shirt of night

slips into the rags of day, and he

manages to make those hours beyond

transition sing like the barn swallow.