Dad, I was still drunk
the next morning
coming down the
Santa Cruz mountain
when you told me
she was laying still.
She who turned the TV off
read me James Herriot
could make something
out of nothing
because nothing
could be still
if it were really
to be something.
and I am moving
toward you now
on a plane
where everything
sits still
except some things
outside the window
that seem like nothing
under my feet
till Boston
where you stood
telling me it was nothing
when I knew it was something
she who read me Heriot
made something
out of nothing
was still…

whose stroke was something
that looked like nothing
until I held her
knowing there was something
she could still could instill
in me that was something
she made out of nothing
it meant everything.