page 5

Blade & Swing

A boy getting pleasure
from holding a razor,
the glimpse of a life to come

where he foams and watches
himself grow wise in the mirror,
that is one thing. But

I do not know whether
the boy I imagine
is a real boy

or is me or my father
or even my son.
I suppose it must

at least be one
of us three, trying to forget
the facts of his life

in whatever he can't forget,
and still finds hard to see.
Now memory (a sudden breath)

lifts me on to the swing, and I swing
by myself, sensing behind me
someone who is happy

(like me), a bit pushed for time,
or pushed beyond time—
someone still pushing

who used to be pushing.