Lines written at a small
distance from my House, and sent
by my little Boy
to the Person to whom they are addressed:
Simon Lee: the old Huntsman, who
lost his father, miracle of description.
Pinch of forming
exact words out of
piecing together. Then
restless in matching
granite with
other forms of
regret. Often scented with
trees from beginning.
Sunset on down. A
quiet parsing meanwhile, and
establish the loss
in effect. I
made you live.
Dad inside gulf.
I made something when attic
dust settled and you knew.
Literal toward beginning and
into fuller gainsay, leaving
nothing and almost
nothing. A first
paragraph perhaps.
