The makeshift bed of foam. The scrapwood floor-gloss.
A loose leak, dripping. White pipes, ticking.
Nine thousand miles west, my father earth-bent is picking out his garden-grown weeds.
The kitchen milk cold-curls into the shape of sea pearls.
With age, he too is growing smaller. (Yes, growing) Swelling in reverse. A grand diminishing.
Soon to be small enough for Heaven.
- Watching Mountains Change Color
- Out of Self