My father had pale eyes,
\nthe black hair of an Indian,
\nthe Romanesque face of the English.
\nWhen I look at the frost
\nI see him.
\nHis voice is audible.
\nAs my hearing fades
\nI still hear him playing a guitar.
\nHe had many figures in his soul
\nthat are not in me.
\nI do not feel our blood connection.
\nIt was a heart we shared.<\/p>\n
The black coat he put on my shoulders
\nto warm me.
\nWe were the beginning of a species,
\nflowers that can never bloom.
\nHis arms held the earth.
\nIt slips through mine
\nand takes everything away.
\nHe was the sharp horizon between light and dark,
\nland and air.
\nWe were father and son.
\nHe taught me to see invisibles,
\nand I look for him now
\nwhere corners bend
\nat the end of empty streets.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My father had pale eyes, the black hair of an Indian, the Romanesque face of the English. When I look at the frost I see…<\/p>\n