...conjures up my father who loved the beaches of Indonesia more than any person. Here he is, in my curtains and tablecloths, the browns and yellows, gold of the whole world, wrapping round me. The fields wild stubble...there is the man. If I could, I would paper the walls in batik patterns. No matter, I'd still see him walking away, through the haunted door, long gone down the dirt lane. A lifetime ago and I still want to howl like a left-behind animal.
the dry canyon over bones and bleached branches, a never wide enough trail, filling in footprints with dust and scree initials wearing away, so high on broken bramble walls a cairn piled, reaching up against time, wordless naming like forgotten ancestors in sepia this too was watered all cottonwood and willow fish and drinking deer the moon will not abandon her watch moving shadows softly along the walls, opening and closing the rock bound story