Tuesday, November 1, 2022

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.

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