this is not my life. we are fighting, as though
we are happy, but.my dad is
dying. i love him. as though i am a child.
as though i were a sapling at his root.
as though i were a construct of his being
as i am
i am
happy. as though i am a child. i am giving
as i will not take what i cannot give him
in his grave. he is wilting, as i realize i am
alive, and i will give him every inch of every
root that i am, constructed on the skeleton
he has given me. with life. within himself
as he is
he is
happy. as though he were a child forever.
as though he were a mighty spread tree.
as though we could love each other
beyond the end.

I may not have the rivers of Babylon,
To sit beside them and weep when I
Remember you, my dear mother;
But may I too never be able to
Write poems or recite them again
If I do not remember you,
If I do not think of you as
My greatest joy!

darkness wraps around me
inside a sonnet
singing, echoeing across the lake
i hear it ,too
inside a moan, sweet and sad
from
eons ago
primordial      
communication
we are one.