Lullaby

Though I'm not supposed to
I look into your eyes at bedtime, still crossed
and figuring out their color, bordering

on closing—then opening again
to our delight and dismay, sleepless 
and in love as we are, swaying

like only new parents can:
endlessly, a little mechanically.
The dimmed light and white noise

doing a number not on you
but us. Our eyes heavy 
as the rain, and yours, why

I started writing this poem in the first place,
yours now blue but bound
for whatever hills they're bound for,

now crossed but slowly getting it
together, moving in unison 
on occasion, I look into them

to make up for all the moons
I've missed, all the bald eagles
I should've stopped for, ooing

and aahing like everyone else
on their Sunday morning walk
around the reservoir, singing

the song we will never stop
singing, even when you're 
deep into your adolescence

and plotting your escape,
even when you’re slamming 
your bedroom door or crashing

our only car or calling us
motherfuckers, you beautiful,
beautiful boy.