this is not my life. we are fighting, as though
we are happy, but.my dad is
dying. i love him. as though i am a child.
as though i were a sapling at his root.
as though i were a construct of his being
as i am
i am
happy. as though i am a child. i am giving
as i will not take what i cannot give him
in his grave. he is wilting, as i realize i am
alive, and i will give him every inch of every
root that i am, constructed on the skeleton
he has given me. with life. within himself
as he is
he is
happy. as though he were a child forever.
as though he were a mighty spread tree.
as though we could love each other
beyond the end.

A mountain hemorrhages cliffs of
sunlight just outside my dark front door;
it is the fifth wonder of my universe,
a morning marvel
framed by coffee
and cigarette smoke; it is
love, with hair of lush pine needles,
and a chest like an arm of dirt:

in your too-old two old
river-bed shoes,
in your dry desert clothing,
why does the fog beat you
like an immovable heart?

How can something so old
be dying; is the sky an
unforgiving wrinkle

more canyon than harbor,
or ship without captain

are we all
all we are
at the end, or is there more?