He comes in from his
Garden,
From the pond where he
Swims,
In the lowering summer night-light
He really doesn’t need
Focus
Any light
Is sufficient;
I’m not sure he knows this.
He has one good eye, but
Even that good eye is so not good
And hasn’t been, but he takes his
Glasses off when he swims,
And
His Italian
Features are
Beautiful when he
Snaps at me
No, no, don’t take a photo
So I do anyway and I obliterate
His scowl
Thinking that the way
My photo looks after I ignore
His worrying
Is more than likely
The way this world looks
To him, unbalanced
Unwelcome
But what he has been dealt.
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