Sweater

Because of the way the rooms are arranged at an angle to each other,from one spot in the living room I can look into the kitchen from outsidethe house. My vision moves past the window over the couch throughair in a corner of the backyard (grave of the Japanese maple) into windowsover the sink, the kitchen counter. I can't say how much I savor thisfeeling of being (seeming to be) simultaneously inside and outsidethe house. It's a good trip. Makes the place feel stable, although the livesit contains are steadily restless, seeking after change so long as there's bedrockto boomerang back to, a smell you can bury your nose in, knowingit's home. It won't last, but gives itself atom after atom away into etherlike the scent my father left in his last white wool sweater. The bloodhoundsense can't find him now in its fibers, but when I pull the garment on, closemy eyes, from inside I see him sitting here wearing it: alert, empatheticlistener, emanating the hyper-presence of the surely dying, seeming at onceto be inside and outside of me. If only.