so it came to me to
carry the abandoned
mattress to the attic

a month dead my father
waited hillside in the field
surrounding his house

I was glad to see him
to remember when
the fathers seemed

generic related a class
of things as uniform as trees
are when you don't know

their names a stand
of them across the field
I want to say autumn

aspens the late fathers
blonde as early evening
wind startles their eyes

and makes of your name
a sail a boat above roots
that rise to stem that rise

to leaf his door and cornices
his felt hat and mattress
empty it feels like forever

above the flickering field
the fathers shrinking
far beneath our feet