Dad moves in the next room, slowly, with little noises,
such as the tired sliding of foot against stone
and the slight wind of shuffling mail. His quiet and
distance redound to the warm bones
of the house, the still and timid barely-there of life.
The only further silence is a photograph
of him, and his father, and his father’s father,
all tight-lipped in shades of ash, the fat and char of it.
How the sun did or did not shine that day.
How they did or did not embrace upon entering
the end of abstractions,
the very keen and practical moment of stilled-speech,
and how some tombs hang open, as if to say—