Listen to Sandra Lim read “Night and Day.”

Every day has its own number,
improbably. I try to live within each one
with no special pleading. My wife lives
inside a fiery Christian world.
And yet, my desiderata grow at the sight
of my grandson, not yet a full year old,
with all his chances before him. You live here,
my wife cautions him, but you were made elsewhere.
Every morning, he wobbles in his bed,
a fresh and uncertain yolk. He puts his tiny hand
out into the world of noise, testing the air.
More love pounds towards me. He throws
out the day each night when he closes
his eyes, two shining black lamps.