A Blurred Photograph Of The Sunlight That Murdered Your Father’s Hiddenness, Or How Light Takes Leave Of The Body

How odd the assembled horses seemed in the distance, standing
under the sparkle ball, crisp in nutmeg silhouette. Mildew
crusts the brown-eyed trunks of the umber trees; he waits hours
not understanding where he is.

Under the leaves, under the topmost limbs
of the scrub oak the blue mare
lips the spittle of white apple blossoms.

Between her and the blossoms
rises the antique smell of lovers. Blood
passes through the rooms of her gray lineage.
There is no one here to separate him
from this observance. He remembers

the young nurse who watched him die. She knelt,
not knowing how to read his face, until
the flushed script of his secret burst
over her like a bonfire lit upon a flat winter lake—
a red flare toppling thaw. He would like to explain

to you the point at which the untouched stones
might hiss under the weight of the current; water
guiding him deeper toward the voices
of those who have gone before him, fortification
of pebbles into sand, like teeth clacking
against the syllabic dark,

but there was a rushing sound the sucking of wind
through cedar. Later

the clerk with the wide lips and sea-blue skirt
handed you his wallet; that small bulk of leather, still
filled with his heat, warmed your palm. As if
he’d simply stepped out of the room. Belladonna,

burning long bright sentences, insulates the orchard; plush
afternoon figures held billowing
arrange with restraint the tiny flames
of your trim dress. Now, sparrows

flit through his ribs. He looks out
over the cut grass beyond the dirt road.

He is nowhere near these trees
nor your faint reflection, continuance
or sunlight. You are not
enough. His voice streams in the boundaries
of waking which cannot be dreamed