This year, the rivers flood – and yet our flowers
will not reveal rivers. You said a man
who floods his skin with fists stands unabated.
You built houses of cards and called them towers.
I found you in my dreams, but without color;
Conversed with fragments of your eyes, afraid;
Asked were you happy? But it was a charade.
Grandpa, you lied as you ticked down the hours.
I buried the whites of our piano with your teeth.
I grasped the ends of memories that you weaved.
I freed the hands of your grandson with your wreath.
A closing anecdote, gaping sorry’s;
If I turned to blink twice before you leave
Would you build me a universe where I can breathe?