I'll start off with two father poems.
I somehow end up writing a lot of family poems.
And for the last 10 years or so since I've been away from home,
I guess at least once or twice a year,
I write a long letter to my father
explaining to him the nature of the universe
and of youth and generation gap and stuff like that.
So a little while ago, I took a look
at all these several father poems
and kind of rewrote them and put a few of them together.
The first one is called "Arriving In This Place."
"The little boy sleeping on silk pillows and lamps and darkness,
what can we say to him?
His foot is caught on the hinge of the window, which
is far away.
He is still falling.
What can we do about it, father?
He is dreaming what he likes and calls its name.
Over the hill, the leaves are falling.
The dogs are calling out his name.
Hear them bark, out of breath, the warm saliva dripping
onto their paws.
The child's hands are thrust up over his head.
He is surrendering.
That's how he learned.
There are questions we should ask, father.
Remember them?
Now we will bury the boy under the leaves, which are memory.
We will sit gently on his dream, caught in the dog's
outrageous bark and the future leaves falling
caught in the act of dying."