the waves are the practice of the ocean
for my son Ari; Greyston: sesshin 5182
here， happy outside of pursuits
1 see you lift up your red canoe， you in this still
are lifting up your red canoe
your powerful canoe companion of the Temagami Wilderness assists，
bears the four sacks， 2personals， 1 heavy， onesemi-heavy--
your companion Mark is giving you help
I have wanted to give you this poem
for 13 years， since you were 5， and now，
free now of my terror for your life
I can make and offer the fluid confirming of this verse;
the pain in my knees and lower thighs and ankles
remembers you in your antic fortress， your attic
closet bed-room years， you and Girl
as if by the wardening moat you invented
made anxiously safe up high and deep in
and my heart bearing you as if， in a high-pulse
of endlessly heavy white，
two floors of Atlantic separated you from me
myself never so alone as with you high in the fort
controlling your floating push-button eyrie.
here outside of pursuits at Greyston sesshin， this sleeping-bag cellar，
my knees and thighs have woken me at 2:25 a.m.， or
the sweetness of my stereopticon of you
woke me， is simple， and casts no shadow， it casts no light either.
it is in my mind like my mind. like my body where on my back
in two places equidistant from my spine
between my neck and shoulder the pain of Shoro s
keisaku-blows also maps like the sculpture inside Rodin s stone
the curve of his finger s stratigraphy where he barely positioned me
before he bowed to my bow after the blows， whoever asks. whoever
gives， one. you.
you d given yourself a cuneiform of cuts
on your forearms last June
swellings of the finger-joints from chops at the freezer door，
part of your rite， myself in despair seeing challenge and a fall into
your desecration of skin and cartilage and on your left biceps
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