all his life my father has lived correctly
he has known sharp moments of gladness.
in the marble skyscraper
housed in a preserve of cool stone
my stepmother brushes her hair into a C fold with a small
My father places his glasses into a wool
case. We are animals first or maybe a wet thought
then we become dirt ocean air then nothing
not even a thumbprint not even a thumb not even the tendon that holds the thumb not even the thought of the tendon that moved the thumb.
We fall backwards to the primary thought
we sing songs we were told to remember
we become mist stains fragrances gods