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.
