poem

I've been thinking of this one lately, but can't seem to find the text of it online. So here's an excerpt from memory, which I'll correct someday.

James Riedel- Pill Bugs

In the leaves that border the cinderblocks of the house
My son counts pillbugs in his palm.
Beads the color of lead.
One by one they open and crawl
Until a touch returns them to playing dead.

My son's hand is quiet
As the museum of a spider's corner.
That room full of people I will get
If I keep my house.
If my stone-carved year falls from it's orbit
Before my son's.

They will wait for him to close his father's eyes.
To close them more than once, for the grey yolks of the irises refuse to dry.
From years of watching, long into the night
The lean, striped shadow waiting by the stairwell.

When it starts to climb for a child,
I speak to make it look at me.
To show it that I fall quicker to its paw.
And feed its family more.

edit: remembered the missing bit!