At high tide
water the color of
Finnegan’s eyes
nearly covers
path to the
poet’s shack
where dust
has settled on
the poet’s tools
in the house
poet holds his son
Finnegan
their eyes
seeing only the
other
Finnegan’s eyes
are a turbulent ocean inlet
or the sky before rain
blue but for the gray
suggesting something
unknown
and unreadable
like the novel after
which he’s named
his look
says look
I know your finger
isn’t a boob
and I’m not
happy about it
but I won’t put
up much fuss
for the moment
for the moment
baby in poet’s arms
fills the air
with enough
magic
to fill any void
left by
poet’s silence
___
Jonas Lamb 