A Wave

of the past as I walk

by a window boarded-up

breaks—cold

in winter and in

summer hot where

spiders lived and dust

filmed everything

in that storefront

that was his home. Or

a madcap air in May

or a combination

of words can bring

a voice to the surface

—it’s that I … at the

thought of him

which, more today

than yesterday,

is like approaching

a grave. His calls

before my first visit

flickered weekly,

are ash now. Cities

changed their names:

Madrid became

Corning became Davis,

South Bend,

D.C. I know

the beginnings

and the ends

of things. I

curb myself,

swallow what

cannot change.

But still, it is

there (he who

was torn

away no

longer

needs). But isn’t

it time this grew

fruitful, time

I loose myself

and, though unsteady,

move on—the way

the arrow, suddenly

all vector

survives the string?

           with Akhmatova and Rilke

           for my father