Sport 41: 2013
[Untitled]
After lunch my mother walks into the dining room
and my father and I both
blow our noses.
In the past when I thought about people my parents
were somehow
not among them. But some wound stayed
wide in all of us, and now I see in their
faces strange rivers and waterfalls, tilted over with broom.
I am watching the brown-paper covers of books grow
about my father, as he dreams there
against the wall, thinking perhaps
how rocks are not quite lands.