I believe the spine was stolen
            right out of my father’s back.            

Slumped at the kitchen table,
            he doesn’t move.  Beyond the window,

light pierces the clouds,
            inspires all matter to burst.

Father had a way with explosions.
            The noon sun’s breaking and entering

his head—smashing the temple
            and storming his heart.  The dark organ stops.            

Arteries close for grief.  Love leaves the barest
            bones of a thought: clouds evaporate. 

How the spit pools and falls to the tile.