i.

I grew up an anxious painting by my dad’s shaking hand.
In the painting of my dad, a quiet hole beats
through the dull, black night. I’m heir to an orange heart
in the rhythmic black where a man leans quietly
and wonders. I wonder about my dad, a hole
in my painting. I used to think my dad was dull,
but his shaking hand gave rhythm to my body.
In my dad’s painting, a hole glows orange in the dull night
where I sit beneath the canvas looking up.
My dad looks down and laughs.
When I went into my dad’s painting and saw a man
lean toward a bright, orange hole, night shook
through my shirt in an inherited rhythm, duplicating
the heart held by his anxious body. My painting
a laughing dad. My heart a hole where on a bright,
orange night, I dropped a tattered shirt, shaking.

ii.

My dad said the man was meant
to be looking at the painting he’s in,
but it didn’t quite work. And so the hole
where he’s looking now. The finger-thick lines
around him don’t hide a failed painting
or reveal any struggle to mean.
My dad believes in action and the truth
of process: a man looks into a hole
and so he is. He looks past the hole
to what brought him to it. The tattered
painting doesn’t work as finger-thick
evidence of his struggle to mean,
but the correspondence of his belief
shakes through its presence. To believe in holes
and men looking into them. To lean
toward action and the presence of process
where a man looks at the painting he’s in and is.

iii.

A man looks at the hole he’s in and laughs.
He never thought about what the colors mean,
the hole bright orange in the black night.
Like babies painting a painting of babies,
the man laughs at the hole he’s in and looks down
to feel his heart beneath a tattered shirt.
He’s shaking like an old man’s dad.
Is a man the hole he falls into?
Colors are the correspondence of babies—
they lean and fall into the holes we leave them.
A baby looks at the hole he’s in and laughs.
He shakes, no colors or dads to hold him still.

iv.

My dad’s fingers spilled around the surface
without distinction, causing the offense
we call process. The painting, having the grace
of endurance, allows the line its tiny provocation,
but lacking the confrontation that would compel
the painting into itself—the man looks down,
not in; we look at, not through. The painting
communicates by presence alone, letting us know
that it’s here without a message, or a message
embodied in its delivery, a swallowed swallow.
The man and the hole he looks into are homage
to us. The man doesn’t have a mouth,
the hole doesn’t have a shape.
Our provocation is presence alone.

v.

I used to went into my dad’s painting I grew up In
When I dull black orange heart wonder about quiet
and saw a man      I      my dad      a hole rhythmic wonders
the painting through the night I’m heir to
anxious painting     my dad’s painting     My painting
an inherited rhythm his shaking hand glows
in my painting      think my dad’s a hole
beats of my dad where I sit In a orange hole
black where my night shirt shook a tattered night
in the canvas      in the dull shirt        and a man leans
by shaking hand       I dropped a laughing dad
beneath an orange night     an orange hole
quietly my dad in duplicating heart
his anxious dull rhythm     My dad held by body
was lean down to my body but gave up
looks and laughs through a bright
My heart      the looking toward a hole
shaking on a bright where


vi.

doesn’t work     where he’s looking now
but the painting he's in is presence
He looks tattered     The man looking so finger-thick
My dad     The finger-thick lines    the correspondence
to the painting he’s in     And the hole
it didn’t quite mean what brought him to it
evidence of his process reveal the man was meant a hole
of My action at the dad of any truth
To mean in looks      and of looks to be
don’t hide my dad at work     toward his past
he is the hole the painting believes in
but shakes around failed action    struggle to lean through
for process where a man and a struggle and a painting
as to him     and so To belief      or its presence
said to believe in holes and men looking into them

vii.

the hole looks at A man he’s in and shakes
Like A baby looks at the correspondence of babies
and laughs     He bright and orange painting
never a man he falls into       Colors are of babies
the colors mean no colors     they lean
night babies painting a black still hole about dads
he’s the hole we fall into     the holes in his shaking heart
in the thought leave them     and down the what hole
He’s like a tattered shirt      the man laughs at the looks
he’s an old man’s hole    to feel beneath dad
or to hold the laughs He Is in him

viii.

we call a swallow homage to provocation
the hole doesn’t have a message
fingers in its delivery lacking grace
but the man looks down without endurance
confrontation embodied   swallowed
causing the process of presence
having shape    letting us know that it’s there
not in    not without a message     a tiny surface
My dad’s distinction allows The painting its mouth
spilled The man through The painting
the line we look at     the painting into
or around      Our man looks into that
the offense would he alone have
The us and the is are
by presence alone the hole communicates itself
the provocation doesn’t compel

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