Please advise.
Stop.
There was no moment of his death to see
until it had already passed.
Stop.
Now, looking means drawing a line around each thing,
daring it to cross.
Stop.
I keep my palms clean for this, and dry.
Stop.
Like leaves in wind, even the thinnest actions
rake over me, only to disappear.
Stop.
Left with color and shape as meaning's only custodians.
Stop.
Warily, I turn my face, not sure my eyes will follow.
Please.
The hummingbird I've caught in a cotton towel
will vanish if the towel is opened.
Stop.
The cellar that I dig will store all the hungers,
but none of the rations.
Stop.
How to tell what must be kept and what
must be kept provisional.
Please advise.
Stop.
Silently, my father's dying attends to the details
of his disappearance.
Stop.
No cut glass chimes in fierce wind.
Stop.
No furtive closing of a door.
Stop.
A silence that is audible and without message.
Stop.
A silence from which I am excluded
can teach me only exclusion's precision.
Stop.
There is emotion in his death, like a microscope lens
focusing.
Stop.
As though everything outside my eyes and my ears' dominion
turns to watch.
Stop.
A precision into which I can pour
whatever I want to believe.
Stop.
Becomes an oblivion.
Please advise.
And one more from the book.
Please advise.
Stop.
Wind is winter's reflection among the branches.
Stop.
True likenesses are never planned.
Stop.
Though magnifications may be choreographed, please,
sky falls through every window differently.
Stop.
Irresistibly drawn into a sudden intake of breath
is the thought that will perfectly fit its shape.
Please.
Ocean's water absorbed into air is severed
from its predictive tide.
Stop.
Only as the seasons change will I
see which fears are migratory.
Stop.
And which of the empty voices have erected
for themselves limestone walls.
Stop.
Into the dark trees, invite the darker birds.
Please advise.