Poem of a dead father
He might want to write a poem about a bird
in flight in the gray scrawl
of late November early evening rain
slanted across streets
like light grown old, stiff, and heavy.
He might want to write a poem about
a bird in the rain, wings crosshatched
and shaded with water; so wet that
each wingbeat is an ink-dark smear on air
where a beak traces the shapes of grief.
But in the rain at twilight a grey bird flies
above a warehouse of old red brick
sketched against clouds where
the rising moon hides, holds back
its gray light from a stoneless November
grave between weeping birches.