A Proof

by Blas Falconer


This yard is sacred. Our son
reaches into the sky and cups the moon to his mouth.
When I close my eyes, the color makes
me think of his blanket, the great cosmos,

the Big Bang, how before, the void ate light,
matter, time–there was no limit to that hunger.
Turned under the streetlamp, the rock’s bright specks
look infinite. In a multiverse, he is here,
holding his small hand to his face, and he

is not here. Beyond one edge, a new world
imagines itself expanding in air.
We lean back in the grass. The leap
is cold and dark. The lungs open and open again.


Read Blas Falconer’s Prayer, and The Foundling Wheel (2)

Or read more poetry in our current issue