INNER VOICES

traveling backward in dark to meet 
my father I held the hands of my grandchild 

in broken dawn of random spring to collect 
the lost years of old house where we could not 

meet and he sat feet resting on the thighs 
in the valley of unwritten letters and thin 

silence, you left before I knew my thumb 
had your skin, climbed to despair I untied 

the knot and had a fatal, pure wound, which 
like a lantern still burns in the eyes of 

my offsprings unabated, the seeds and salt 
and bloodstained umbrella will cover the street