He is gone now, the blind man, tidily dressed
in a suit of dust, with a dusty tie and dark glasses,
who played the clarinet on Paseo Huerfanos,
the paseo of the orphanage…
You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know:
The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle…
I’m sorry,she said, but you look
just like my father. He died last month.
She found her cellphone
and showed me a photo that looked
as if I’d taken a selfie.
But what of the happiness they wrought?
Laughter around a table, flavor of onions
and mustard and salt, music to drown the sound
of his weeping. All the gods are fallen.
When his mind grew empty
and his heartbeat slowed to a vague stutter,
our father no longer walked the fields at night.
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