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daughter

for B

A late morning
summer chill
sweeps 'round
the cafeabsent-
mindedly
ruffling
my cowlick.Yes, I am
wearing shorts
and
a sweater.Yes, we are
several years
into the third
millenniumsince
the west
recognized
a prophet.I was beginning
to lose hope
when I saw
the babyin that
pickup truck
chewing
the steering wheel.Dad leans forward
and kisses
the back of
her head.

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I'm at the Irish pub

again, and I brought
Rimbaud, and he'ssixteen showing me
the dark roomof truth. He says:
Nous sommes à secd’amour. I say:
We can do betterthan want—
we can give in.This is not a poem.
C'est moi au-delàdes complies, breathing
like a drum.I am a fish
in the black throatof your dreams.
Don't pretend I knowwhat’s happening.
This is not a poem.C'est le mot qui tombe
en morceaux, like rain.

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