The Refrigerator Poems

He sleeps in

Morning is not a vamped up whore
with sticky lips
or a dry and unraveling
leaf pile.

As a baby you lay on top of
your father's chest-- he was also sleeping-- and matched each of his deep breaths
with two shallow ones. This explains
your lapse in memory, this sprawling and forgivable
intermission.

Morning musses
the pile of dusty leaves you asked me softly
to rake yesterday, when we still thought
we were awake. But the night thickened
with dismembering force. Then the dust motes
descended and I heard a tympanic
sound all around me. I think
my father
reached down and lifted me
high up above the yard. He was frail
and wearing
this apologetic face.