Lament for Seven Minus Some

If one pound gone, then where?
To the folds of his blanket,
the sails of his out-bound cries?
A shred, a hair’s-
               breadth, a small, small loss.

I find moths, flies’
asterisks on the sills
& sweep them out with October’s leaves.

Above the eaves, a thin-lipped moon.

(One-tenth of his body’s weight
               is whose fault but my body’s?)

Normal for a newborn, this vanishing.
A spare minute, too-light print
on rice paper, end of a sentence
I forget. A pinch, a peck,
               the sock that’s slipping off—

My imagination
               curls, quickens.

.