R U S T Y   M O R R I S O N
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from FAITHLESS ANATOMY

 

 

The eyes

 

Let us genuflect to the changes we can to talk about, and listen as the floor cracks.

I promise myself to tell him what time it is, every time he asks.

My father notices himself working to take notice of me, and the confusion in our greeting

becomes our greeting.

I fill his bath, its water-stain marks the limit. The porcelain amasses its dignity.

I look down upon the Baroque church of old-man hair.

His hands are motionless, but with a cormorant's stance.

No one can know, without asking, when he's become invisible.

 

 

n e x t

 

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