I told my brother that the BB I was going to fire

at him, from our second story window, wouldn’t hurt,

that his layers would protect him from the sting.

And I imagine him, now, walking into drizzle,

a desperate wonder wrapped around him

My grandfather, ninety-two, wakes and sleeps again as I read him Keats, but Li-Young Lee holds him for a while. I read, “The Gift,” where the father pulls a splinter from his son’s palm. I read, “Eating Alone,” where the son mistakes a spade for his late father waving in the garden. I read, “My Sleeping Loved Ones.”