#62

Quote Keats. Over beer with Jon. Hesse now, or Musil. Mingled words, images bibulous ensuing. The river, find it. Rove in skins for omphalos, signature, stone. Action. A legend, like on tea. One can make out / what one will make of: something. A big page in the notebook, inky alias across. Conjure and her and err. I listened.

Then rest while they visit. Sarah's Phebus, God of Sun. Azazel in the pillowed chair. Lemon water and honey for the cough, which will rise, if it does, you know. Half-eyed: Tim on bicycle pause. Let no man look down on your youth. Friends, tells me, and this, post and party. Parting. Happier now, maybe. Failsafe cure. Mine own not, a sturdy shoe booting me. Frail though, consolation. No dissolution without analysis.

A sentimentalist. Debtorship. Owe him something. Dream him in darkness while the humidifier hmummmms. Tell him finally so he'll hear. Father me urgent, say. Read me harder than the gesture. Distangle. Never enough seed to plant. His roving too though, immense charge. What collapsed? Bedside, I remember. All those tubes in his old man. Electric box buried under skin. Anoint him thus with holy water. Try to tend the puzzle strewn on table, dad. Find a frame. That trip: he called out in his sleep, we slept. What did he say? No matter. Grand scheme of things, his ears stopped. The elder slipping off his bed and dying. My aunt wearing black for grief. Sit in mourning, seven days. More maybe. Tell him the truth, that's my mother. And...? I wandered the streets without him. A New York souse, can't be bothered. Notice the rhyme. And that too, remember, back before him, the similar streets in winter and that newspaper notice with a cup of coffee. Tore it out to remember. That day, is it? Or her? But none of that for him, and I, who had manned the travels, found him work, calmed the jut and tremor of his nerves. Leave me be to my grief, and accept nothing for my loss. Why does it move me still, your moves so still in comparison? Listen.