Father
you were in my dream
confused, calling out for your own mother
though she was gone the year
I learned to walk

you walked
while you talked
your hair was not yet gray
yet you were more befuddled
than on your deathbed
in the poppy's soft
sluggish embrace

I could not trust
your words in the dream
why do these creamy visions
visit me, you so long
under the dirt?

what other words will come
when I am defenseless, in repose
wishing for more from you, perhaps
even though it is fiction
I can never
decipher