A post is owed
to father and others — two coins under tongue to pay the tugman — Staten Island across the ferry — low flying in over New York harbor — guitarists on the plane with me — one healthy, one broken —
the thoughts of that still mull — epic and epochal — strange contingencies — the past is prologue — this was my prologue, I think, and think of how children necessarily steal the world from their fathers, smiling softly as we begin to care for them — not yet me, for sure, not yet him, I can care for no one, yet, and he is still in the fullness of his strength —
But one day —
This is not the post that is owed. This is just thoughts, not details, not life, not the true-built structure of memory — blood flows through those deep cathedrals and conjures up past times for me — it is magic — like the magic trick of appearing on a girl’s door with flowers — I made these appear —
This is not the post that is owed. This is another post.
The turbulence of my ocean, in the morning, days later, but feels like weeks, unable to write, about to write, about to finish this law thing —
My mind is an ocean — sometimes the storms above betray the quiet below — sometimes the stillness above betray the storms below —
This is not the post that is owed. There will be another.