Because this graveyard
is a hill, I must climb up to see my dead, stopping once midway to rest
beside this tree.
It was here, between the
anticipation of exhaustion, and exhaustion, between vale and peak,
my father came down to me
and we climbed arm in arm to
the top. He cradled the bouquet I'd brought, and I, a good son, never
mentioned his grave, erect like a door behind him.
And it was here, one summer
day, I sat down to read an old book. When I looked up from the
noon-lit page, I saw a vision of a world about to come, and a world about to
go.
Truth is, I've not seen my
father since he died, and, no, the dead do not walk arm in arm with me.
If I carry flowers to them,
I do so without their help, the blossoms not always bright, torch-like,
but often heavy as sodden newspaper.
Truth is, I came here with
my son one day, and we rested against this tree, and I fell asleep, and
dreamed
a dream which, upon my boy
waking me, I told. Neither of us understood. Then we went up.
Even this is not accurate.
Let me begin again:
Between two griefs, a tree.
Between my hands, white chrysanthemums, yellow
chrysanthemums.
The old book I finished
reading I've since read again and again.
And what was far grows near,
and what is near grows more dear,
and all of my visions and
interpretations depend on what I see,
and between my eyes is
always the rain, the migrant rain.
