WEBVTT

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I'll start off with
two father poems.

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I somehow end up writing
a lot of family poems.

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And for the last 10 years or so
since I've been away from home,

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I guess at least
once or twice a year,

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I write a long
letter to my father

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explaining to him the
nature of the universe

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and of youth and generation
gap and stuff like that.

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So a little while
ago, I took a look

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at all these
several father poems

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and kind of rewrote them and
put a few of them together.

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The first one is called
"Arriving In This Place."

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"The little boy sleeping on silk
pillows and lamps and darkness,

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what can we say to him?

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His foot is caught on the
hinge of the window, which

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is far away.

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He is still falling.

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What can we do about it, father?

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He is dreaming what he
likes and calls its name.

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Over the hill, the
leaves are falling.

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The dogs are calling
out his name.

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Hear them bark, out of breath,
the warm saliva dripping

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onto their paws.

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The child's hands are
thrust up over his head.

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He is surrendering.

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That's how he learned.

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There are questions
we should ask, father.

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Remember them?

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Now we will bury the boy under
the leaves, which are memory.

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We will sit gently on his
dream, caught in the dog's

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outrageous bark and the
future leaves falling

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caught in the act of dying."

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