WEBVTT

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This is another poem about
a daughter of mine

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called The Mold.

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As you swing the door
your passage through air

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sends back the pale
vibration of your disapproval

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and crossly shakes the curtain,
puffs the fire to flare,

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and settles like coal dust.

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Which though we remove
all signs of it with cloth

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and wax it's still there.

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I would be with you on the
ill carpeted stairs climbing

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toward your unheated
room in stretching pain,

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that all elastic
anguish of the child.

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You think who cares and
following your tragic side up

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to the laceration
of your prayers

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I recall the single
beds where I have lain.

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In this bruising of
spirits and this pulling

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of feathers from angel's
wings, we reduce you to clay.

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For that is how we are made
that every flight in all

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weathers subsides
until well-formed,

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we drag from our
beds toward day.

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