In the night my grandson dreams
that he can fly, that he can save
his young brother and my son
from those set to harm them.
He dreams they are all together
in my son’s office, there where
bad men and determined evil
have gathered for harm. And so
he lifts wild into the air, sweeping
up and down over them, breaking
their faces until bones shard and they run
howling from the sweet salves
of his angelic and ripping fury.
What cares could wrestle so innocent a rest
and drive his dreams into fear and rage?
And what can I, an old man at so many miles
from the treachery of his dreaming,
do for this little boy, who I know
would save me, as well, were I too there
in the terrible office of his dreams?