I move without moving. For instance,
the body stands at a window, spilling
ink of thought that travels into the shadows
of trees, other pieces of darkness
and beyond the curvature of evening.
My father appears, every night
a different man. A strong walking stick,
a vine of black berries, a dangerous wave-
the kind which disfigures the ocean's floor.
Maybe like a river, moves away,
ebbs back. Sunlight caught
in the delicate fabric of water
as the wind plays tricks
on mirrored surfaces. And surfaces.
Move without moving. Never
absorbing or trusting. Superficial
intent that mean less
than they mean altogether.
I think without thinking. It is
a gift. Or a habit. Like hair.
Grows unseen, silent. Yet,
shines brown and gold.
These are facts. My father
said- "facts are not like stones.
They shift. Like love and how
you feel it. Deny or reveal it."
Someday, I must learn to move.
Not like stones. Not like light
on the river... more like
my father. Like love.