Surely the wind would speak of violence
if the wind would speak. But also valence
when you think of airplanes and their weight
buoyed up and floating, seemingly still
and noiseless—which is how things look
far off, dimly lit: a father’s lips blazing
as he dies, slipping in and out of sentences,
sentences that mean so much I can’t keep them
by the hospital bed. Better in his kitchenette.
Back there, his voice was hoarse
from shouting. It wasn’t a plea, it wasn’t flat
and horizon-filled, like the plains.
It wasn’t plain speaking either. It was an animal
bray, chomping at the bit when you broke him.