They make you pray, no matter the green, cultivated life of caution and concern, that you'll be allowed to return. Sunday A broad sloping lawn dotted with picnics, plaid blankets. Families bunching like grapes, lovers opening like petals. He pores over his comics, and is deeply affectionate toward their narration in blocked images, their bubbles of talk. I think this day he is happy as a cricket on a stem.
Waters lap the pond's edge, as if a swan is passing by.
His mother pats the boy's hair before he joins his father in sleep. In this he will become me, and I him.