I heard it, called the child,
sitting up half in a dream.
I heard the years change!
All around his crib,
the noises that men make to celebrate
folded into outer silence.
What did it sound like?
It was the plopping of a paper
bag, or the squiggling inside an
egg. And on a milky breath he
slid obliquely back into his dream.
But all the next day, he walked
gently through the new year, not to
scratch or spoil it, and he wanted
to know from whom it had come, and
how, and why, and
could we ever have another one?