That death was thinking of you or me Or our family, or the woman Our father would abandon when he died. Death was thinking what it owed him: His ride beyond the body, its garments,
Beyond the taxes that swarm each year, The car and its fuel injection, the fruit trees Heavy in his garden. Death led him past The aisles of tools, the freezer lined with meat, The television saying over and over Seek
So why do we insist He has vanished, that death ran off with our Everything worth having? Why not that he was Swimming only through this life—his slow, Graceful crawl, shoulders rippling,
Legs slicing away at the waves, gliding Further into what life itself denies? He is only gone so far as we can tell. Though When I try, I see the white cloud of his hair In the distance like an eternity.
[Dedication] Jean: the poet’s older sister [5] garments: clothing [6] swarm: [7] fuel injection: the introduction of fuel into an engine