Epiphany of the Cross Writes about his Father, H. the Magician

My father, born summer early morning
sunlight among the nuns, was taken
to the place they take the small ones:  a room
with little bears on the wall, slots of oxygen
tubes and metal.  Surviving that, he made
his way from where he came, a blank
hot land he could no longer stand, dryness
taking hold of everything.  He
took his stand and left the West for good--
finding wetness and rain everywhere
he was finally good.  Now growing old
he sits alone counting his rib bones,
testing out his time, the days and seconds
left behind like postcards or love letters.