An emperor's grace, slow

no-space, catalogue of fish turns

sculling shallow depths.

Your mother lays on the couch,

Horatio.  There is a laying

of hands.  Her brother—

who I love and look over

to on long drives for his shadow,

his hands holding the wheel—

is shy of her body.  Your

body where now we feel

the skull, the limpid

reeling curl.  What a surprise,

Horatio, when I found

him sitting on my porch

like all days had been this one.

Little thunder, you.  You

already pith and sturdy

frond.  Your mother lays

on the couch, Horatio,

and one by one we ask

her blessing through our hands.

One day, you realize

all days have fed this one. 

This one, right here—

a small crescendo,

the loudest noise we hear.