Pass me the Kleenex.
Here he is now, here, and I do nothing.
I am aware of a necessity of moving
but I do nothing.
It’s something structural, like anthrax.
Here he is now, here; & I do nothing.

We wake up in the beds our mothers slept in.
Here he is now, here, & I do nothing.
My father, in a fairly distinguished life
made room for his grief.
Time, after her death, for the diagnosis
and for the twins, & the beloved his

to twine up outside, & long afterwards
lady, you got a wonder.
Sorry you died, lady: some have not recovered:
I would have known you: the twins have not recovered
they bluster on motorcycles and give my mother a hard time
where she is.