After my father died,

I kissed him because I

always kissed him goodbye. 

No wrap of arms.  Filial love

in its most primal rendering like 

the hands drawing each other

into existence that Escher drew.

One is because the other is,

in perpetuity. My laughing boy

from the land of booming hello

darling, now a painted totem of

death.  No magnetic hands.

Let art if it can breathe in

and out for long love, for

the loss of an alliance with a

father in flames on a barge at sea,

for how we are done and undone and

how we become the last of the bees.