His Hair
[The infant Phillip sleeping under a Florida fan]
The air blows just above his brow. Hair lifts
And falls like thought inside an angel’s brain
While drowsing. Curls like these are gentle gifts
From heaven. Silks like these can know no strain.
They simply float to left and right and rise
And settle like the chests of angels who
Watch over him. His whitecaps canonize
His beauty and baptize his head anew
Each time they settle on this sleepy beach,
Each time they drift, dispose themselves and sink
In slumber for a moment. Then they teach
A dozing infant angel how to wink
With tiny movements on the pillow’s cloth
As fragile nearly as a breaker’s froth.