when every moment has left us
& both the owner & the house resume
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.
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.