to the small fellow in the future who has not known
how to begin the past, begin. you will put a name
to a face only to see it walk away, anyway.
there's nothing you will want from your father
but to meet him. the only place hurting will be
the one you're not back from. it'll be a journey,
even this body washed, even the one wrestled
to the ground. to arrive at a place then will not
always be by choice. the quiet around you will be
a song, it doesn't leave your throat, despite the fact.
despite the song's slow drip coursing new
channels: since a hole: the mirror of an intention
to let things through can be hard to fill. since
the dinkum oil out of your mouth will put a hit
on you, you say it with the intent you put
into a torch to make it point. a good transporter
will point to his bus, tell you how the road is
smooth for the most kilometres. all you will
want is to get home, whatever the age in damage.
the edge is a knife taken to a tree not to cut it,
to see how well it can hold on to its hands
before letting go. you won’t know the people
you walk past; save the ones you lead into.
today will only be tomorrow if you make it.
you will go ignorantly to a place because knowing
will cost too much, because blood crawls, adopting
the fingers of water, it leaves & leaves till it
shapes into a map of the world: you are in it,
you will look at the world & see a mirror,
not the man in it, but the sore river carrying him on