My father’s voice bears the weight of indignant, violent memory a voice so heavy that he struggles to carry it it swells and collapses and sways and stirs, and I worry that he will fall right to the floor right down to the floor, there with his feet there with his head, here with me, A constant inclination for a cold, inhospitable, merciful floor And at the summits of the swells and the riverbeds of the valleys, At the apogee and at the anchorage, I worry
