The Pain of Your Room


The son, if one existed,
would show at my feet and push
back the shadow behind me.

He’d look toward the sky to see
me shading a blinding light,
beg me move, so he may see

the rounded curve of the earth,
the reality of space,
so his retina could adjust

to the brassy face of God.

I, father in my own right,
would protect as best I know,
the son, and say to him, No.

I will not shift, will not move,
any communion you wish
to have with your handsome God

or the world, will come through me,
will bend around me, sift through
the window and the screen hung

inside the pane of your room.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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