Prayer for My Father’s Frontal Lobes

Leave him a little, the prelude to night. Leave him

his languages and lonesome embellishments. First name
and leave him a gap to last strip

of being. We redistrict to his small breakings, and he to old
photographs with content. Leave him far more—

the wide anchor of winter, his eye on the flat
of the river. The desert is blooming

its nests and mending. These days I confide
in vague fractions, the durable light.

Leave him the ordinary.
Leave him his storms. Pray away vanishing.

 

 

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