While winter sun squints at the ghost flower

dying in its shabby terra cotta

far from home

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.