You Must Lift Your Son’s Languid Body

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off the couch, tuck him into whatever

soft breach of the covers he can needle

into. You must lift your own tired self

beyond the threshold of the door

and snuff each candle till the smoke

writes the hours into the quiet house.

Must lift each pillow from the day

where new dangers thrust their heads

up from the anchoring grass. Each living

rage beyond the break of the horizon,

past your sight even on this cloudless day.

Because the future drives on new tires —

because the plateau piles everything

you love back into dust. We drive our pick

through the mineral of our apprehensions

and put our loves to bed without stopping

ourselves. Without pausing despite our worn

trunks. Without stopping our breath of song.