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Poem	During the war, I was in China. Every night we blew the world to hell. The sky was purple and yellow like his favorite shirt. I was in India once on the Ganges in a tourist boat. There were soldiers, some women with parasols. A dead body floated by going in the opposite direction. My son likes this story and requests it each year at Thanksgiving. When he was twelve, there was an accident. He almost went blind. For three weeks he lay in the hospital, his eyes bandaged. He did not like visitors, but if they came he'd silently hold their hand as they talked. Small attentions are all he requires. Tell him you never saw anyone so adept at parallel parking. Still, your life will not be easy. Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks. Nothing matches. And what's the turtle shell doing there, or the map of the moon, or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart? You must understand -- he doesn't see the world clearly. Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!" when it was only a blue cloud of insects lifting from the trees. But he's a good boy. He likes to kiss and be kissed. I remember mornings he would wake me, stroking my whiskers and kissing my hand. He'll tell you -- and it's true -- he prefers the green of your eyes to all the green life of heaven and earth.
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