Like—who?—a Zennist
Who is lit up by a chunk of the mundane—

Shinkichi Takahashi eternally burning seeing the baby’s
Turd afloat in the communal bath—

I’m walking past the greyhounds’ owners’ house
When a tinkling chord from their portico

Boards me. I am the most stupid
For one finger snap, asking why is dad on me

In a rash, in me as sea-sickness? Dad was.
Four lengths of aluminum conduit,

Six-pound test monofilament fishing line,
A little plastic leaf-shaped clapper, arrhythmic heart.

Now he is implicated by breezes,
An intermittent afterlife by association

With wind, tubes, filament, a son
Until all is all and then he’s yours.