I lost my emptiness to the sea;
wept as a child weeps for a rabbit's torn ear.

We crave a turn
in Egypt.

That fine American living room
That fine American house

Sparrow’s wings beating against red walls

Portrait of a young girl
hair spilling in clean ringlets
over the back of a crystal beaded gown

From the top of the stairs
I count out too many windows
to undress our patience

Skylight above owes me a glimpse

though death has become a cheapened
thing perhaps with the way we
sanction off parts of ourselves

just to lament family portraits
tucked away in dresser drawers

We make our way into the library
take pleasure in tearing the pages
from a leather bound book

I catch you lingering

You’ve always been
a step ahead of me

Never reading too much into the silence
Never making a habit of indecision

Pulled up from the waves enough
to squeeze your sister’s hand -
my father cried for you.
I think I cried for him.
Maybe the years will all come rushing
back when the sun finally dries the shores for good.

I seek out priests like him wherever I go -
I make a holy man out of the stepfather who announces his brutality
and leaves marlboro cigarettes to melt into the ***** carpet so they can
bloom into perfumed florals and carbonated soft drinks.

But this -

Who am I to think myself pure in this?
I say all that’s already been said and still revel in it.