A vacant hour before the sun— and with it a valve's pneumatic hush, the deep and nautical clunk of wood, chanson du ricochet of rivet gun, trowel tap, and bolt drawn— the moon sets and water breaks. Curled within a warm pleroma, playing for time, you finally turn and push your face toward November's glint of frost, grains of salt, weak clarities of dawn.
When he turns fifteen, you'll be fifty-four. When he turns thirty, you'll be sixty-nine. This plain arithmetic amazes more than miracle, the constant difference more than mere recursion of father in son. If you reach eighty, he'll be forty-one! The same sun wheels around again, the dawn drawn out and hammered thin as a copper sheet. When he turns sixty you'll be gone. Compacted mud, annealed by summer heat, two ruts incise this ghost-forsaken plain and keep their track width, never to part or meet.