The New Life

I have a son
Who is six days old.

Cut out of you,
A lavender bundle

Whose slate river-blue eyes are lovable,
Like the mole on your
Fat right calf.

When we are tired as broken drayhorses
Or furious as nursing tigers in love

You pull faces
Longer than a bishop's contempt

While we whisper on vigil

Though nothing wakes you
Once sleep has you,

My perfect little man.

Robert James Berry

If you've any comments on this poem, Robert James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.

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