my father wrote in flesh, on white, parting parchment, on supple and yielding skin tightened for him.
he knew nothing of what he did in that dark-liquid bed; erect in his man-power, he wrote in mindless words.
he knew nothing of what he did, but to him I have no need to lie forgiveness—he needs none, for his words have a ringing sound.
his chromosomes were keyed into a sunly code, his words aligned the atoms of a galing, windly mind,
and he unlocked the door that blocked the watery shaft so I could break the surface with bones curved of his pen.
he knew nothing of what he did, but it was good, and as I laugh in light my flesh sings of his words.