A Wave
of the past as I walk
by a window boarded-up
breaks—cold
in winter and in
summer hot where
spiders lived and dust
filmed everything
in that storefront
that was his home. Or
a madcap air in May
or a combination
of words can bring
a voice to the surface
—it’s that I...at the
thought of him
which, more today
than yesterday,
is like approaching
a grave. His calls
before my first visit
flickered weekly,
are ash now. Cities
changed their names:
Madrid became
Corning became Davis,
South Bend, Ar-
lington. I know
the beginnings
and ends
of things. I
curb myself,
swallow what
cannot change.
But still, it is
there (he who
was torn
away no
longer
needs). But isn’t
it time this grew
fruitful, time
I loose myself
and, though unsteady,
move on—the way
the arrow, suddenly
all vector
survives the string?
with Akhmatova and Rilke
for my father
