My Father’s Child

 

My father’s child
was not beguiled
by paucity.

He liked excess.

He liked the mess
that bled and sped

in wild illusions

bred from his
enumerating head

like coiled snakes

in lapidary curves
of the Baroque.

My father’s child

could not not choke
at falsity. Whatever

wasn’t dream

could not be true.
My father’s child

was not like you,

or me. My father’s
child had mystery

and has it still.

Sometimes I feel
his spill – his

history inside my

curling mind.
Quite something

to wake up

bestride a predawn
hour to find.






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