MARK IRWIN

Brief Father,

Thank you for these forays into the words, their

woods I prowled, my pencil the stick upon which

I hobbled to erect one more flag, lusting for the moment,

marveling at a flower, by which I mean flesh, gazing

at a stone, by which I mean tomb. Thank you for each mercy

and minute on the threshold where stalled, sniffing,

poking like a dog, I wanted only the opening or closing

to linger. Thank you for the seeds I squandered or

coveted, and thank you for the fruits, especially the orange

sprung entirely from its impatience with green, swelling now

on the one horizon as the world flattens out so I can lay me to sleep.