The Second Sky

To my son, whom I left, I would leave
a second sky, cleansed of emollience and blue,
and still large, glacial, familial.
I am lying. That is the sky I want,
without the bearing of my escape,
without any direction save outwardness,
without absences. And for the real sky,
above us, I will outline its orientations
and demarcations, for my son, all
the calibrations of familiarity so that
he knows the Latin names of the little
bear or the seven sisters, so that
he can predict the mooring of Venus
against the horizon. Everything I write
him will be of expanses and homecomings
and fair readings, somethings of promise,
and--say it!--somethings of love.