An excerpt from
Facts
by Bruce Taylor
My Son
How much death in this small fist?
How much in twelve weeks of the summer,
In the black star-map of his footprint
Pinned to the wall above my desk?
Fourteen pounds: I have a bag of rice
Heavier than that.
Yesterday he fell, or I dropped him
Three steps down to a slab of concrete.
I examined him well, h e was still closed
And perfect all over,
Not open at all. Nothing was different
But still I saw it,
How much death there was,
How all of it poured out, a cloud of moths
Hiding in the light.