I’d been told that having a child
would ignite my eyes
pack wonder back into the humdrum of a spoon
the seductive arch of its spine
the tiny rope of beads around the handle
the way your face is upside down and potato-like
when you look into its shallow metal bowl
but I didn’t expect the unveiling
of so much sound
his little hand points constantly to the roars of the city
that my ears have learned to ignore
the rumble of a pick-up truck
the hissing of a bus as it slows down
the way an airplane can hum like a river
this morning he cried when I told him I loved him
and I knew
that he knew
what I was really saying was
please
it’s so early still
fall back asleep
and I realized
that he can hear more than trains
and the click of the mailbox as the postman leaves
he is wide open
a hungry net
catching all of it
truths and aches
the wondrous bedlam of a life.