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Father and/or Abraham

It's like talking about the Lincoln Memorial:  tremendous, yes, bigger
than anything I can remember, those tons of marble cold
                                            when a cold wind gets in
                                            there but warm in Spring
--are springs warm in Virginia, my last address for you?
                                        It's like asking that enormous
white silence to explain me rainbows
                            to question my desert memories for clues
to your face:  you, at my age, were already elsewhere, far away
from your child as your government could get you, and it's like
                                                            screaming
into the giant effigy's ear to mention.  It's like
                                               searching in solid eyes
                                  for similarities I so easily find
in photographs you left
               in your wake like postcards from your winter vacation.
It's like measuring a statue
                            to find a space
                            to fit you.