This dream is green
And actual memory:
My father and I
In the neighbor’s yard,
Having just stepped
Forth from the woods,
In summer, evening,
The light gone gauzy
About the shrubbery.
Perhaps it is joy
In the strangeness
Of our being together
Alone in such a place,
Or maybe it’s only
The way the lawn slopes
Down its long expanse
Into our own backyard
That makes me dare him
To the race, first
One home the winner.
And am halfway there
And certain when he
Simply passes me by,
His trousers a thresh
Of fabric flowing
Smoothly on my right,
And then the amazing
Sight of him running
Steadily beyond me,
This father of chairs
And silences, halt
Figure of my youth.
How could I know then
My pursuit of him
Would never again come
Gladly to such an end?
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