He knows it will take them forever to find him:
"Is he in the cloud?" "Did we leave him at home?"
The invisible child just laughs and laughs
invisibly, deeply, delicately.
When the Bear finally gives him away,
heís back in his car-seat. They never guess.
No one hears him.
Not a single person cares.
No one joins him.
Time is out of joint.
The galaxy's in disrepair.
The cosmos disappoints.
They pretend to listen.
They act as if they share
this wheeling omission,
this lack. At three,
the invisible child
an invisible child. He canít reach the ground
or the laundry or the house or downtown
or juice or Bear or (until he smiles) a frown.
The invisible child hangs upside down.