Prognosis

My father is all  
at once. It is noon and widens  
further into another  
landscape of feet.  
The words he uses are a measure  
of the half-point 
to silence. We listen  
to the mirror on the wall  
and my father is bent  
down with 
grizzle and returning 
spaces. My father reminds me  
of my father. Father  
as conveyance, as legal 
document, as night flight, lost  
pitch. Next question. For something  
to do, we name the body  
by streaming daylight:  
knee, nerve, stomach. Reason  
the tender sound of sun. Name hope 
as a pleasantry. We are spending  
our time folded  
into it, finding 
ourselves. We are not  
doing nothing. We are planning 
the task of letting go  
of all thought and my father is root 
and tree. I put my hand  
on his hand 
and build a small  
mountain. I haven’t described 
his voice. An hour passes again.  
A sound not said. A negative 
ghost. A rain  
unbuckles the leaves. 
Perhaps we’ll look  
in the mirror and see 
what just happened— 
what I mean  
is, the future.