One of the Fathers

He sentenced The North. There was no fugitive
farther than his thought. Whatever was drowned
he brought back dripping.

He listened in Nashville,
inhaled history, and narrowed his eyes.
We take his picture and carry it along.

As well as I can I make a bundle
that he could not approve—my best versions
of intricate stories learned from him.

Content to find poetry, not understand it,
I go on, followed by his glance
from the still place he found.

I’d like his approval of my
loping versions of those strange stories
he began to tell