I hear your infant voice again,
unspooling on a tape made years ago—
No, though it was paradise, I can't,

can't go back to that room, filled
with your rounded vowels, the sighs
and crooning of a newborn child,

bright syllables strung, like beads
on a string, into meaningless meaning.
One night, as you slept,

I read Blake's song:
I have no name:
I am but two days old.

By a circle of light, I read,
exhausted, stunned:
What shall I call thee?

And you, in a dream
beyond me, cried out:
I happy am, Joy is my name.

You laughed the laugh of creation.
Beyond the darkened room,
a framing radiance, beyond

the framing radiance, the world.
But for an everlasting moment,
we were there, together,

in a place such as Blake knew,
your infant syllables dissolving terror,
fear, all that could befall me, you.

Meaningless meaning made new!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee . . .

And I was laughing, too,
to read Blake's song.