Requiem, at a Loss
“Goddammit!” he says, “Jesus Christ!”
then silence – mostly.
then maybe, “it’s…it’s.”
I wonder, without words, what
shapes thought? Tell me, moss rocks,
glaciered bays, gouged trunks of trees.
Tocking, tied, moon-wounded,
we turmoil – never moving through.
Unable to clank clay from the
spade, agape as bell or elevator
shaft. More than silent: snoring drafts,
shattered timbers, flats and trowels
tossed into a truck.
We are shucked. Splayed.
Un-kerneled husks tumbled together,
raked, naked in our
But without words without
lines to describe the pitch
and hiss of this, my father
pounds and shoves,
sniffs flowers, hugs and spits.
Roaring, a silent fire,
quietly fighting the full boil,
a greening bulb unable to
unfreeze its outer skin of glass.
Until at last.
♦ ♦ ♦