in the wake
the ardor and iron-strong
the placement reads, immaterial,
as those irregular waves that sometime swim in the
physical realm at a finger’s
touch, a monumental transport
through generations
set sail upon a paper
sea of letters, of words
ours could but flounder in
rafts aground against
self-made puddles
and i can only remember the omnipotence of a tick-tock antique,
and dusty shelves of magazines,
my grandfather’s life stories
and bait collection,
and window blinds,
and metal cross,
these shrouded in vague lighting—
blonde and amber and bluish bronze that’s brown in scrutiny,
for i was not there.
to reach out and touch
those accolades
weighted against our palms
in velvet relief (or leather,
or other reverent packages)
is a consternation, a question,
hesistant and undeservéd
i dare not ask.
with it (in so remembering)
the indomitable receding tide:
its blackened shoals, resolutely ink-stained shore,
as it was once,
and it has been
an explication
of curt, hardened throats
the swell wroth with power.
