The wrinkled shirt over the shoulders of the chair
Rests in a blue heaven of blankness
The crumpled pants in the corner
Unworn now over a week
Are stained at the knees

The child wanders with a silence for words
In the tall forest of houses
And 5 o’clock traffic
Tears seem useless, and only the woodpecker,
Wings tucked around a golden red body
Strokes and digs with vigor against the tree

Grandfather the wind stings my eyes
The child in my body ages toward you
I size my shirt to my own shoulders
My frame tightens and the pocket
Beats hard with blood

What dream is in your coma?
Do you speak with God
That your voice is so still
That your fingers twitch with nightmare

During the early morning
Before dawn colors the darkness
And barefoot monks kneel on stone for prayer

I walk the dirt avenue
The universe of the field stiffens

Out of the cold
Your face in the circle of sun