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Look, Sam, I can’t tell you why. Things I thought
I knew have been raised up, caught in the tops of trees
like runaway kites. The world is a mess. Those vases

have grown moldy inside, a smelly sap tingeing
the glass in fits of green. Yes, I’m smoking too much.
Yes, the world is a feathered oyster robbed of its pearl—

once swimming quietly in its own rainbow of light.

Last night, I didn’t even hear you come to bed. It seems

you’ve learned to tiptoe, or to glide your socks across

the wood floors in soft, sweeping motions.

And the world is a mess. The word ‘Father’ now rings

eerie, like a church bell tolling at odd hours, with no

one there to pull the rope.

The truth is, I watch the morning sun gather up dust

in its wake. The truth is, even the microscopic

can be seen with the right trick of light.