A Note for Fathers
You dwell in memory:
blazing, soot-smoke, refined flame,
shifting, yet stone-hard,
with weights unbound.
There are scarce words
I would have written,
amongst polish concrete monuments,
amongst pine-willow shade,
had I the blood that now courses,
breath that now fills,
webs of infinite electric complexity
that pour themselves onto paper,
now.
Then I was bereft of all,
shivering for the slight,
tender touch of idle hands,
offering frozen comfort,
knowing some other truth.
In the chisel marks,
you persist
doing now no damage,
knowing now no strife,
knowing not how
grass, water, time,
can move boulders –
do not dull wounds.
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