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Father
Now, the deluge! All the aspects of my self
            Partake in this emergency. Let there be no
                        Meaning over me, as long as there is a word to say.
I have passed the gate : there is nothing left
            Than a little sound, that is fleeting, and sounds
                        Somewhat like a song, and somewhat like sobbing.
It is a far sound of some loneliness I have
            No part of. My father's body bent over his work:
                        My mother in the hour I was born. The hours pass.

The piano stood before the window, that
            First threshold. The surface on which I place
                        My hand. Subject to its force and what is reciprocal,
The force that subjects my hand to it.
            They are bonded and of a common fluctuation,
                        A commensurate force. The fires of sound and light
And touch and heat, leading us a stumbling way
            Through the periodic dark. Our little life :
                        The spark falls, dims, and is reconsumed. Our fires
That gutter in the tropic wind.

            My lord is a chemical lord : and a sorrow.
                        I stare into the middle of the room, and pour out a
Small measure : the only measure left to me.
            Help me up, my darling! My figure has fallen
                        And left my thoughts behind. My voice fails, heart.
I am a sodden fool, for you : you knew that
            For so many years that is is nothing to you now.
                        What is love, left inarticulate? The piano, a facility
Of mechanism : my father's body in its place.
            What place should I assume? No more than this,
                        That I would live in the articulation of your worth.