dad 

teach me how to get that bald shiny

just like you. and there we’ll be 

two scalps approaching bald 

My wild grief didn’t know where to start or end.

Sometimes, I dig my hands

through the earth just to get

my fingers dirty.

The traffic lights, the coffee perfectly hot, the engine of my car gliding along in the morning, 

the buttons holding my blouse together, the soles of my shoes solid.

Look how the sidewalk rises to meet your feet

with the gentleness of mothers. The splendor

of spring trees in fuchsia bloom is yours alone.

I have grown out of the sock drawer. a vagrant unfit holed structure that still somehow keeps you warm.

Right about now, the devil, all come hither and cosmic slop, will claim his corner. He’ll flash his chest muscles and grunt your entire Christian name in a way you ain’t never heard before. Ignore him, but keep an eye trained in his direction.

A teacher says You don’t know how to relax. I am afraid of hair

in the drain. When I close my eyes, I see jet pollution. A silent

monk stops me walking to dinner. If you live a long life, he writes

on his miniature chalkboard, You will be old.

executive

decisions

needs dying

in congress

I like the look of old, liver-spotted hands
Playing Rachmaninov with complete agility
Pounding out the chords or whispering the pianissimi