A tactic for keeping us near, not for staying awake.

Still we’d call, Go to sleep! – joke that the well

was dry. We don’t see our mistakes right away.

I sent his father pushing his whole self:

sleep-walker, his father's father, laggard

pilgrim. From across the hall, we heard a small boy drink

as if he meant to teach us how it’s done: exaggerated

gulps, or blessing of the throat, or baptism; the sinking

thrill of water filling his bony frame, or drowning him.

And then the playful gasp between each self-immersion.

The antics of the unconverted. Had he said

his prayers? His sadness at the question, his sour

objection. One more. One more dog-weary tour

and prayer was this encounter of his thirst with ours.