The mouth

An inquiry he is building for me, instead of a greeting. A tower of toy blocks, a little taller

each time I come.

While a purely vertical perception, which I cannot begin to follow, extends upward through

all my father's meanings at once.

There is one window in the bedroom, it is never listening to us.

There is a kind of listening in which everything previously understood is left behind, but not

forgotten.

How then to answer a sudden contraction between the planes of earth and

panic.

The mural of my childhood face will not be saved from demolition.

 

 

 

back to issue two

 

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