Dwaine Spieker
My Father at Twenty-Nine
In the denim of dawn,
he sat at his end of the kitchen table
to buckle his workboots.
Leaning forward,
his back was a pasture of muscle
as the sun broke over it.
Already, this early,
he carried the sky.
In Medias Res
The cardinal landed
and said:
There is no beginning,
only the point at which
you began to pay attention.
