aversion

for a long, long time I wrote no fresh poems
and then, just now, there was this...

aversion

In the morning

when my son’s cherub face smiles down

from his high bed  

—his gently wandering eye synced by night,

but still puffed with sleep—

he slurs his morning,

smooth like a jazz-drum-stop.

Muted, like a deliberate lie

as he declares the peace

of a no-dream-night.

Terror-free.

But though I know

and see

I let it go.

I say okay, fine, I’m glad.

Because who wants morning tears?

Who wants fears,

shining back?

Better the placid blur,

the tight smile,

the subtle wave from his tiny fingers

receding into his high bed,

fading off into the sky.