By Michael Walker
not when, but I ask instead: where
where did his voice grow and blossom?
where did his larynx feed on the hay
of unrefined noise and conjure glassily
all the screams just so honey-sweet?
like a luxurious box, leather-covered,
I now covet that mediaeval existence,
the goodly education of sherry-spirits
and dreams so enclosing they feel
nearly like steel-fused ship's hulls.
his stern heavy pressure on my chest
a ingress expressing definitive acumen,
a passage from basic darkness to sensuality.
this boy of mine, as a gone-over book with so
many serif curves, so many curling words;
this boy of mine, beyond karma and never of fate, this boy with a silver voice and a factious gait.