next
 
 
 

Father and Son
In memory of my father, and in welcome to my son
In the wings there is one who waits to go on,
and another, his scene run, who waits to go.
 
I would like to think they met; if not here,
then like crossed letters touching in the dark;
 
the blank page and the turned page,
the first and the last, shadows folding
 
over and across me, in whom they’re bound.