To my father

I enter the mouth of dream
between the ticking of the clock
Something invisible falls to the floor
without hesitation like a star
while the world sleeps

He has left the warm body of his wife
to rise for work with closed eyes
through rooms of empty furniture
The fragments of his face
sit before a bowl of cold cereal
with obedience few would understand
while his childhood wanders
barefoot and unreachable
into the music of another world

A dim candle at the window
watches the wind dig into him
like a dull knife
head tucked deep in a jacket
and cold curling him into a leaf

as dark blurs into dawn