ABSTRACT

You asked me once What it is that I fear The inchoate endless Drip drip drip of something That wracks my brow And shakes my right palm … The tremor your brain, and your father before you Gave to me. I can tell you now that It is your obliteration that troubles me. The secretive and insidious ways That you have Seeped out of This moth eaten and inadequate Brainhole of mine. The way that you have become A character in a narrative That makes no sense at all. That I speak around you Because I cannot reach you. I recall all the details. The red birthmark on The little toe of your right foot. The meatiness of your hands. The way you say