Creek, Cloud, Cricket
I drove ten hours toward the gravity of mountains
Away from the withdrawing bay and on the other side
of the Cape the sea’s constant worry-beads whirled
In the many-fingered tide. I was home and a long way
From it. I was twenty trash bags tightened one at a time
With old things, stuffed with the past in a dark garage.
I was inert explosive. I was upright. My father’s lips
And eyelids affixed shut, his hands folded, all horizon.
Modest shadow details of sunset on a strange beach.
I was home and alongside the creek I was alongside
When my father spelled out the last word he said to me:
“Yes.” The creekbed’s brushed knuckles just below
The surface of running thought, watered down mountain
wisdom. Summer drifted like a jellyfish. A creekbed
Mumbling yes endlessly. A cloud over a hospital wing.
Ritual shawl over a…
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