your voice dense with your son
who fell into a well, the words 

becoming moth prints, becoming
that near-bone sky, the blue ache 

of the sky, seen from there, 
a kind of window.

No one will ever know what it is
    to be extinguished.
Love is fleeting
    and may never withstand
        the test of time.

Everyone has a father  —
but only some fathers
sow the seed
for their sons
to break into song

My cat stays on the windowsill,
his tail teases the flame of
a candle, his body —
motionless.

You exhale gasoline, 
toss around lit
matches, pockets bulging
with match boxes.