our son tries to sound like us
he’s singing poems voicing circuits
void dancing he’s hooned to tunes three cuts
in the pleats of your favorite gingham vest he tries
we don’t know all the words cogito becomes

coagulant lilac why lack hysteria is his
tears here we’re quilting his words as speech
voice songs about loam and ozone
tying his voice to life founding a fresh fantasy
making something he enjoys minecraft

just dug holes serving him salving him trying
not to solve him care is easy sane two cuts
in what’d been one thread he’s the light reflected
off the lids of our childhoods two cuts in time
loading these modes onto an arkish bark

headed for an anaerobic mangrovial zone suited
to the type of open expression the kind of hearttalk
three cuts indulge in far from their city’s ness
taking turns floating in geese streams
when the deluge light is bright two cuts

in favour of their time two cuts making a third
finding something to praise our life has been easy
sane the geese aren’t rocks or bad metaphors
they’re birdly greasy geesely not too easy
we watch him emerge from the surf

the wave talk the sand the sedimental
drift he barrels towards us
a barrelling link handler busy capable
            no layoff
                        from this
                                    handelry

a multi-faith ’splainer in a charming newly atolled voice orthogonal to human purpose
            nothing but links
                        and handeliers
                                    in this mud warmed air

at night I sing a son song
brightening my own eye
toning ringing sounding

sounds that let me slip
through or out from under life
’s established meanings

we are traditions reflected
off wisdom’s lid
blooms of truth nested
in holding’s obligations

they’ve been easy

and yes