Issue 31, Winter-Spring 1964
I’m drunk. My head holds up
the soft vibrations of the room.
Dusk. My daughter jogs her answer
to what question? Coffee, yes. I sip
toward soberness, and stiffen where her
six years ask me truth. I am
her father, due to speak the single
thing I know. I hear my ignorance say
“Your growing meets a certain angle
of the sun.” This is the truth. Today.