He Knows Nothing

He Knows Nothing

He knows nothing

of loving,

of sun on his face.

No hands

have ever been

in his,

no sand in his hair,

or salt

on his lips.

No days

spent in tears,

or sifting thoughts

of nothing.

No time

in a kitchen,

and fry

of the fish.

The burn

in his throat

has not yet,

the bourbon found.

Or screams

of the minions,

he’d meet soon enough.

The sweet blister

of passion

that would wreck

him for weeks

was detained,

for now,

he knew nothing.

Ruptures of prospect

still loomed

out there,

in the narrows

of straights,

in the posh of to be.

He would rally

for now,

at the breast, soft and warm.

Just born,

and for now,

he knows nothing.

Hayward 2007