in my father's house there are many
mansions. I remember the passion
of adolescence, bodies
of water, rhythmic slapping
during rain, before/after, over
hill and dale and lake,
panting rush of skin.

Let me start again. I ran
that sentence into the ground so
to speak. Speak loudly,
and never be afraid
to go out on a limb—
my mother's words, my father's—
Man's sins, there are many, many …

a paper flower dropped in a cup of water
succored with yellow petals
glistened with spit.