An Aleph

My father made his own way to infinity

Or likely nothingness

As we would both have guessed—

But there alone as I have often since

Imagined him reclining in that sterile room

The pastel walls and neatly stowed

Steel instruments of intervention

In the maladies of those unblessed by his

Humanity—

I want to hope that as his

End was sealed he might have found

Beside a humming white florescent bulb—

Behind a ceiling tile—an orb—a gift from

Borges—shining with completeness

Sounding whole and universal while

Particular down to every atom of him

And his world through all of time and

Up to now—

When he might wish I find my own.