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.