On scraps of paper
strewn about the house,
I catch a glimpse of your handwriting  
and it resurrects you from the dead.

Amongst the living,
I can hear your whistle  
as it echos in the hall  
and I remember how I thought that,
'one day, you would make a good dad'.

Amongst the living,
I forget for a moment
that you’re thirsty  
for my blood.  
and that dust now gathers
in the spaces  
where the blood used to flow.

Amongst the living,
I forget for a moment
that you’re haunting me.  
That you’re still here  
but I can’t speak to you.  

That your corpse still lies  
in the next room
Still.  
Tv blaring,
The smell lingers  
and it’s getting bad.  
my phone lights up with your name  

and I jump.

Amongst the living,
I remember  
that you’re only broken.  
I can see your smile
in my mind’s eye,  
Your freckles  
and how I used to count them.  
I wonder now
how much time I’ve spent  
staring at your face  
and how I knew our baby
would have those eyes too.
primal, astral, ancestral,
blue.

I loved you once
and for a moment,  
I remember.

Father is buried,

there is more light now, the sky --


is so much wider.

What I have passed on to my son
is often unclear to me.

I just know
that I had the grace to ensure
the package I passed on
is not the one I received

and that the extent to which
it will be unpacked and utilised
is not mine to determine.

That choice was part of the package.

three one one
free to run
and jump off the cliff
of the canyons of Earl
your tree rings swirl
fifty four and no more
i had nineteen when i wore
black on black for you

“their mental state contains something lethal:
past, nothing but past” Nikolay Y Ossipov

you measured your height
with the mountains
your fists with the howl
of lonely wolves
to avoid helplessness stupidity confusion:
the all too encompassing human nature

I no longer want to keep you
in the alternative dimension
guarding your wholeness
I'll let you fall into pieces
I'll let you die the death destined
to you
instead of crushing him
or imploding myself
for him to rearrange his fragments
for me to hope for all the levels
of coherence
I/we are capable of

bodies afraid or in love are the most intense
I want my body back
from your battlefield of delusions
your pain is not my pain
your despair is not mine
your manic refusal of touch
is still my manic capacity
to love wounds tragedies
aborted laughter
some words are mirrors
I'll keep writing to you
till there is no escape
from the clarity
of dawn:
all my love is of
no real use
to you

I know father well,

he is happy to see me --


though he doesn't show it.

Father, now waddling

from left to right, seems to walk --


on spherical feet.