On my son’s tenth birthday I am paralyzed 
by everlasting gratitude:
 
My happiness goes open-source
amid an apocalypse of baseball games.
Bleached reefs, records skipping.
The possibility of cops gunning
on toll roads while I speed through
summer snow. Dystopia of 
chrome wildflowers. Butterfly effect 
of beetle-plagued monopines.
Along it all my love for
life’s bright moments is 
 
untranslated testimony: In happiness, 
I see blades. In this relentless, 
preemptive missing, everything 
floating, beautiful, gone.