Ryan Sawyer
New Year's Day

Some hours after we've come in,
rain pours in steely threads. It's dawn.
I peek outside. The light looks thin
and fluid on the silver lawn,
as if I'm watching a fish tank
with someone else's glasses on.
Last night the glittery sphere sank
as we drank. Now the house is dim.
My mind stretches: someone to thank,
things undone, something said to him
but not meant, somewhere to alight
vaguely observed, as through a scrim,
a parallelogram of light
motionless on the hardwood floor,
as it was all through the night.
Wait, what was I thinking before?
Forget it. Underneath a glaze
of sleep, I shamble through the door
and down the hall and, as always,
stop, waking up now and drinking
him in, this baby boy we'll raise.
He paddles through the air, blinking,
bright-eyed, and then pauses, as though
that moment blissfully thinking,

Go dogs. Go dogs. Go dogs. Go!


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