***
you can call it the sea
because emptiness is frightening
it’s black and deadly
you can’t encompass
or imagine it
you can’t let it in
the predatory bones
of a whale stick out
from the sand of the shore
the scattered sand of an hourglass
where time does not belong to us
***
don’t think about dust
or about
what we turn into
the ghost ship will sail
full of darkness
in its hold
snakes hiss
and three-headed dogs bark
don’t think
I’m telling you
don’t think
calm down
just lie humbly
at the bottom of the hold
For My Father
1
yesterday I was surprised –
thirty years have already passed
since your wooden boat
turned to the other shore
now I’m getting ready too –
diligently tarring my boat
thirty years, Father, is just
the stroke of one oar
2
Father, I’m following you
not with the steps of a child
but with those of an old man
will we have something
to talk about now
since we are the same age
you see – I’ve forgotten
what it was I wanted
to ask you
these are The Great Waters
where our two little boats
pass each other by
3
Father
when Mother
lay down next to you
did you feel more at peace
she is older than you now
by about
thirty years
(but born the same year)
lying there next to your
heap of bones
***
once again
the poem just begun
got stuck
like a jammed pistol
granting someone
new life
and I was granted freedom
the wind ruffling my hair
birds in the roadside trees
the command
wasn’t carried out
shoelaces weren’t tied
so beautiful
this life of ours
when you know
it doesn’t last
***
I don’t know what
a good poem is
maybe one that
gives off sparks
or maybe
ball lightning
(it came in once
through my childhood window
leaving two dead
and my eyelashes singed)
so much for poetry
