Martin points to the fragrant dome
of a water parsnip and, lo, so it becomes.
In fact, that which Martin has realized
into being may well be deadly hemlock
and thus—ergo sum—I exist, 
not just to trundle Martin down streets 
of this his Bethlehem chirping the name
of each object in this fallen world
that his tiny finger outthrusts to designate
a Significant Wonder, but to keep 
what's been newly begotten into meaning
out of his mouth. Each truck grumbling 
by the progress of Martin's rolling palanquin 
is thus blessed. "Garbage truck!" I cry. 
"Oil truck!" "Beer truck!" "Motorcycle!"
"Brother Crow," I caw. I who follow 
Martin like the small slave curled 
behind the feet of Suleiman The Great 
when his chariot wended in triumph
through the adulation of his golden town,
who chanted "Remember, O King, 
thou art but a man." Martin in his newness 
to this fallen world can still see 
the thirty-three Aeons of the Pleroma 
glowing out of each tiny floret
of the swamp parsnip. Thus the noise 
of things in themselves delights 
him far more than my noise about them.
And yet, Martin is magnanimous.
If his attendant wills it so insistently,
he will relinquish the dried dog turd
for the polished beach stone. No,
Martin will not discern the wise man
murmuring to the pale shell of moon
along the shore path from the fool
jabbering on her cell phone. To each and all
he claps alike a one-handed "Ciao!"
though he's yet to come, to see, to conquer 
ancient countries where the customs
of such greetings, still new to us, 
have lost their names to time. 

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