fullness begins

when every moment has left us

& both the owner & the house resume

old conversations

in touch with growth & process

there is something

about the fullness of a glass

that overflows its content.

it is the same with silence

full & foundering in grief.

in the silent but eloquent glance,

my aged father dies, slowly

like the second that rambles

up to us, stretches us full apart.

though taciturn,

my foreboding is profound.

on this path against blossoming

time flattens the tender reed.

i wish only for a belated sunrise

for my father who identifies

now as clumsy care.

i wish only for a journey

where purpose pleads on his behalf,

say his fate is like a brick wall,

only that this brick wall can feel,

can hurt, can sorrow & die.

a window filled with winds & walls

is as my father is — an algorithm

to the progress that cremates him.

i process unpleasant thoughts

i sweat, purge & inhale disregard;

in it, i am lit by cringed shadows

consoled only by how he thinks too

certain of himself, to be half-lived

too full & military, to be foundered

when old-age talks about fullness

it only means to talk about absences.

or, is this not how the wind breathes?

my heels burn, the texture of my tears

unknown. my songs grow reddened.

full songs on a full, barren night,

i wish to write this poem before

death comes to kiss my smiles goodbye.