Poems I love

Riverlight

 

My father and I lie down together.

He is dead.
 

We look up at the stars, the steady sound

Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan.

This is our home.
 

I remember the work in him

Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost.

And I imagine the way he had fear,

The ground turning dark in a rain.

Now he gets up.

And I dream he looks down in my eyes

And watches me die.

 

Frank Stanford

 

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