My Father Took Me Hunting because we had given up other ways to make music.
The white hummingbird of buckshot
is not melodic, but neither is silence.
What I recall I recall scarcely. Like a sostenuto
hanging so faint it may not be there at all,
I could convince myself this is just resonance.
To this day I forget the aurora of gunsmoke
gathered over a rabbit. Pink slime
wetting the dry pages of what he explained
was now more fertile ground—this is not
what I return t