THE COMB
My father’s head is
dishevelled, on the inside.
So I comb his thoughts,
as if dealing with grey hairs.
No, this is the combing out of a field
in which a man has been found. Look
for evidence: When did it begin? Where?
And above all why?
My father’s head is
once more being hunted
on the outside, thinks the inside.
I comb the sea on a filthy night,
the wind on a winter’s day.
Before thoughts I will stay kneeling,
when they too are no more what will come then?
But the comb now breaks its teeth
on the contents of my father’s poor head.
No comments:
Post a Comment