These enormous boys drink so much
weekly milk, crash through doorframes,
have grown to destroy without thought
windows and chairs. Why pictures are sad
is cameras see the invisible moment.
These boys, now large and regarded in
marks, scuffs, a torn screen, loose arm,
a stain, were once in whole beauty always
brought forth to new events: the plate,
the cup, washcloth and sink, toilet and bath
and clothes and holiday food: smaller in
pictures than they were in my arms,
offered to the eye that would fix them.