Master

In memory of the typewriter and a children’s toy. In memory 
of flower and fruit and the hospital is bombed:

bangs and voices amidst the long stretched-out cataract of the city,
the soft whisper from beneath rubble: my boy… There is food in the fridge, please!

Be quiet!, you shout, fingering rock. They are coming to help, just stay still.
And you go on talking, just keep on talking, you talk about the window

next to you, the people outside. You talk about the lake you swam in
when you learned how to float by inhaling, and how abrasive mortality felt.

You talk about blueberry, pine cone, almond. You say: are you close enough to God?
I give you my life, it’s in the rock! Just push, push!

And you talk about how near they are now and you mention music:
Pink Floyd, Beethoven. You mention your vow as a son. Then your vow

as a husband. father, grandfather. And you ask:
what’s his name, your son, what’s his name?...