and the smack of the magnolia on beech,
and the heads fall into lace gloves, your head fell,
and the sails sink whitely, for the knotting of summer air.
on your breast is a pinwheel of me,
only your fingers in what remains of my hair now, hues
no son could hold (you) like a casket.
and old plungings and you, the fatherfall
and I weep like the mother who never caught you,
and the wind that yielded you to horizontalness,
it finished you like a paving of hillock, jut against the horizon,
not knowing better than to curb you into a new soil.
and although the edge of a rectangle bites more brightly
and lower, still lower, and the cleft of a new grave,
and if my love would have saved you, an epitaph, a taper of sallow,
I am brighter and whey for having loved or bit for you at all.
and the heads fell, for in a crack of hush the offgrey of a vigil
and paean-fat cheeks, and neverending spills of earth
and tearjots are deft and a kind of hailfall, for a whiter epitaph,
yet with a whiter sail you sink, to know a rootwork of hues
eyes cast down like a spent glove,
and in each finger a child, and in each child, a spade
and your head falls, your hands unfurled,
but for the smack of magnolia against your palm,
and the ceremony of salt.
Hector Lloyd Robinson ("B")
March 20, 1942 - July 14, 2018
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