from Sedentary Fathoms

Sedentary Fathoms
                                |section seventy-one|

While watching what
         resembles me,
my daughter recognizes
                                     the purity in
                                                 my
             silent stare.  A
                                    devoted
music pronounces her name, a
     diligent moment of connecting
                            does not
dissipate into an
                               unmemorable

                     shape of numerical
distance.  Parenthood is fruition.
                                                    Fatherhood,
                                           the personal
silence of an elated form of
                                           music.
           Piano learns me,
                         leans toward
              my observational solos--

hearing what my language states,
      my daughter envelops rhythm in
                                the
                            context of
absolute interpretation--

Sedentary Fathoms
                                |section seventy-two|

                                Light paused
                                                  to
                                        isolate     or|and
                     postpone an
                                              unforgiven
                            moment

                   embedded
                                             within a
                        darkened

            right|wrong fraction of

                                       particular

                   infatuation

Sedentary Fathoms
                                |section seventy-three|

       We
    began with an end--
                       an hour’s whole
                               noise breathing
                silence as a forward
        momentum to
                              blanket
                each moment’s
abbreviated life span.  Span
                                            as
                                 motive as to
                        believe in the memory
           more so than prophecy’s
inaccurate                       desolate

                      apparitions--
we devote cognition.  Devote its premise
to burgeon a bouquet of neoteric
inclusion.  When one of us said
of wind                          its slant,
                                     unseen through
                            each syllable of
                           sound
                      slides
                                 inward,
I became certain of silence, its
speech more relevant amid my
open hands releasing what was
         learned among irrelevant
                                 histories