For I can snore like a bullhorn 

or play loud music

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman 

and Fergus will only sink deeper

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, 

but let there be that heavy breathing

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house 

and he will wrench himself awake 

and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together, 

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, 

familiar touch of the long-married, 

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens, 

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, 

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.



In the half darkness we look at each other 

and smile

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, 

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, 

this blessing love gives again into our arms.