He reads voraciously
to his young children,
beguiled, somewhat bewildered
by sweet progeny's relentless
leaching of his words, his hungry baby
birds, how their peeps teach.
He reads sporadically
to his father, articles from the paper,
headlines and bylines for his dad
has cataracts, now, and velum
hands shake newsprint, make a rattling
sound, too like the quiver of cloistered
skeletons, all those remains,
all those remains.
There is wisdom in comics, he's found,
bucolic rings so like old church bells,
tutoring fields through fog.
He still tries to read
shared history in eyes,
the geography of long sighs, that topography
of belly, yes, yes, a theology
that spills from parted lips;
bless each rumpled sheet, that chemistry
which repeats poetry, spoken
in a dialect, so rare.
He remembers reading an encyclopedia
in the face of a beggar, once,
prophetical sparks from high brows —
crossed currents; a lifetime recorded,
an unbound edition, A through Z
but when he carefully turned to C,
he'd found a full entry
on compassion and charity.
Soon, he'll no longer read music notes
through a soft blur, playing guitar
for one a thousand times more educated
then he, this twelve year old girl,
this preteen, dying, her heart
an open lecture hall, her smile,
pure academia. May she ever be
opus angelorum, that reaches,
will ever reach, far past
mere hospice walls.