There are three houses in this road
In which a child should have been born.
The first was caught upon a screen.
It floated in the womb’s pool, dead.
Then, in a cool September week,
A boy was born with his lip split.
It has been sewn, to leave it neat.
I do not know how he will speak.
The third, a son, was born so soon
He weighs less than a loaf of bread.
His skull’s blue vein-maps tick and spread,
A fledgling’s head the wind blew down.
Thistles and dandelions, yet green,
Cloud the late sky with glistening seed
At which we stare, in empty need
Upon blue air, its waste and sheen.