Sunday, June 21, 2009

A father, a fathom, a depth. I can reach my arms around a father. It is a length of rope. A boat, the solid ground, an aspect for the feet. Be thee there, be thee there. Can such a thing be a shadow? Yes. Can such a thing be a mountain? Yes. Is a mountain the shadow it casts, its tide? Is a long shadow proof of a mountain? What when a father moves--is that a mountain ebbing? Is beyond the frame forlorn? Furlonged? Purloined? Stolen when the father is a ship is sleep. Sleep is where we follow a father, through the fallow crests, yielding fish we cannot flay. They are diamond fish. Hard, cold, worth more than the ore we care for. I can reach my arms around a father, but it is the father reaching wanted. To be swaddled in mountain, the soil and sail wrapped tight into our infancy to set us free. Be thee there, be me mine.

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