-and yet, farthest father-i

i am scrabbling out something other,

other than the vague, smart pain

i've already tasted the roaring,

rushing kind, the kind that comes

from the knowing of sweet wet clothes

in the soul's shame

The inevitable.

If you are a rushing wave,

pain is an after-tide

(the only thing that will pull 

my stubborn face back to yours)

When I cannot hear,

it is only because I cannot see you

and your voice was all there was

(in moments of super-clarity, 

the dirt cleansed from the eyes of my ears)

; yes. That is when I see your voice