I rely on you for the names
of the teachers, the regenerated pictures
that took me time to digest and paint the essence of my own mind.
I rely on you for the names of the men and their children who
you feel relieved do not belong to me, but this is never said—
for we are history, you are silence
with opinion not present when it gives life to ghosts,
a brief mention among what I have loved.
You live, father, only when you posture trivia,
list politics, talk dates as if they were absent from experience,
side by side, once again, we are concepts
adjacent to feelings that do not intersect.
Together we pray for nothing because
you are not party to the illusion of wolves.
This world is so ripe (and subsequently spoiled)
with human beings on subscribed pathways
situated by guides, whitewashed boards
the boundaries of schedules and approved destinations.
Our ancestry as it becomes hard to distinguish—
will we be able to find each other in familiar eyes?
The animals. The man will find his way home
among the voices of walls and imaginary children
a place where no one but you will be listening.