My dad would have been 94 today, 

and I’ll be 63 next Saturday.

Regardless of which Zimmerman’s alive

or dead, years fall like rain to swell the river,

same mad god still counting drops. Now, drowned

gold sun, dry champagne in your glass, strong ale

in mine. I slept in late this morning, haven’t

showered. Mind’s a dark pavilion, fairness

in the shadow turning blue, and temples

gray. I write because I want to feel

alive: the poet in the book I’m reading 

says the same. New moon: late birdsong, whine

of tires on the interstate, the bedroom 

window cracked to let the night air in,

death floating lonely and austere. I feel it 

pass but know that it and I will cycle 

back. This dispatch from the planet, time, 

my molecules: so slightly all coheres.