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
their eyes
seeing only the

Finnegan’s eyes
are a turbulent ocean inlet
or the sky before rain
blue but for the gray
suggesting something
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
to fill any void
left by
poet’s silence


Reach out and touch someone....

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