My Father

is dying quietly in lines I drew,

space we flew, paced in mind,

rendered sane.

I never thought the action of shear

could bear such


such soul, such crushing heart.

That little room where we discussed his closing

was but thin pen.

How can it hold my bursting eyes,

my crippled chin, my gasp.

I am so proud to give him this bed, this moment,

and wish, I wish I never had.