No Sign of Getting Much Better. But Good Luck to You & India

I clutch the hazel eyes of my father

in my sleep dreaming of walking

the tracks with my father’s lantern

looking for bodies

of deer & windblown derby hats from town

& the entirely underlined book

from the night before on my mind


the aureate nature of my telling


brutal grace follows realism


the transcended field I will tell you of later

my only one we were born in the same place & now lie down


what in the dark is essential?

I’ll be that

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