My son with a beer glass raised

So lightly in his hand.

I do not understand or misunderstand

Good sense informs me I am not amazed.

My son with a beer glass, drinking,

And rakish thoughts on his tongue.

Now I believe I am no longer young.

We are close, but neither knows what I am thinking.

From my body this strange brown life

Emerged and becomes my youth.

My dreams devised the pattern of his truth.

His acts the caress’s solace, the tempered knife

That razes the golden year

Of our twin growing together.

Why these shadows across his lather of brilliant weather,

Because he sways, jokes knowingly, holds his beer?