[i](for John Swenning)[/i]
Enchanted – listening there to subterranean conflicts of love,
Lad and Dad, dark echoes of me and my old man.
That invitation tendered – and declined – would have rendered skill
In me, wisdom of the knotty, passionate weal
Of reciprocal head-butting that embraces love and hate between
Father and son, tethering them like cats on a clothesline, clawing,
Incessantly united, minutely, painfully aware
Of the wefts of each other. No other souls mingle in the play.
Had I hefted that proffered burden, I would now be steeped
In the loving turmoil, been counted wise in that hour when the
Circle dissolved, dispersing discord, leaving only love and despair.
The poetry you sing of your old man dwells within me,
A bittersweet echo of mine, of mine.
So I learn through hollow bulletins that I am forever banned
By time and choice from the mysteries of you and your father.
I am forbidden past the outer rim of your grief.
I don’t know what thing I regret the most.
