Both Eyes Open

The rule lived at the end of the hall.
Not the stove, and not the dog that bit the Harmon boy.
The glass.
You do not look in the glass.
He said all right and meant it, the way he meant everything then.
When the neighbor asked who broke the gate he stepped up and said

I did

and stood to his full height, ready for whatever the man's hand held.
He worked the lids off jars to see the threads inside.
He took the clock apart to the small brass teeth of it.
He carried the bird the cat had left to the back step
and held it until the down came off grey on his palms
and would not wash his hands at supper.
He ran the hall a hundred times with his eyes shut
past the place the glass hung, laughing,
because the rule was a game and he was winning it,
and he was so happy that he                                        

...forgot...

                                                                now the old man
                              looking back can't find the day
a Tuesday.
Flat light off the floorboards. Nothing after him.
He turned his head the way you turn to a hand on your shoulder
and met his own eyes. They have not let go.
He sets his face on in the dark before the window can.
He counts his own blinks. He holds his throat still when he speaks.
The neighbor asks him a small thing across the fence
and he hears himself walk the row of true answers,
weigh each, take the one that fits, hand it over clean.

He keeps his hands where he can see them.

He checks the latch, lets go, checks the latch.
The jars go furred at the back of the shelf. The clock-weight stops.
He walks the hall slow, both eyes open, level with the glass.
The boy is down there, laughing, a step from forgetting,
and the old man leans until his forehead finds the cold of it
and watches him almost not look.