|  | Our Infant Cries and I 
Our infant cries and I am up againbefore the timeclock blares its thoughtless ring
 shortly then to find morning, Monday, rain.
 Is there nothing more so disquieting?
 
 An empty sock like molted skin lies silent
 on the bed and through the glass I hear the hiss
 of steel belt tiresdumb workers and their pent
 up dreadfading in and out among the trees.
 
 Even the love we made the night before
 has drained my body, swamped my head,
 and I am swimming through an open door,
 one my son yet cannot hear or read,
 
 but one in which he comes, I hope, to see
 how loud this routine music sounds to me.
 
 
 
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