mosaic of my father 

he walks on water he is made of dirt

wheat   tea   noir novels 

whiskey   red meat   old Bollywood

music   and seventy 

different kinds of hair 

oil canoes wait 

on his shore translucent the birch 

of his skin his anchor-chain arms

could lift Kumbhakarna

the salt-encrusted links hold 

each other and where they touch

is an invasion 

of pain contradictions kiss him

it is foolish to impute affliction

to the sea  but he abandons

water    kneels

on dirt look away and listen

he's always telling you something

to be down here in the tar

of the world's dull stomach   the sticky 

surface the scum stench 

it's not the way anyone wants to live

the conspiracy is it doesn't make

most people kill themselves either

a sin is its own flagellation

repentance   its own forgiveness

a man of light    will burn in his shadow