for it takes but little desire to satisfy
it’s the thresholds build tolerance…
and my pain

and I know I know it starts as a seed we all have the seeds of it in us but he didn’t have to die my father didn’t have to die with so little love for themselves to die young younger than is needed as we grow older with our blank emotions and they tell us the living they have the story to tell and

they save you they save me from our history

and what do I say? he says

you? You always talked about Grace but that’s not what I see

what do you see?

my world and who I share it with my ears never burning and somehow it all works though none of us know each other

BUT I LIE IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT THE GRASS IS DEAD. Bermuda doesn’t take to harsh winters. I hold the club like an extension of my arms my hands my fingers interlocked and right—the grip right. It’s almost as if I can feel the ball as the iron face touches it nudges it along further along its dimples the brand the logo showing face up reading it to me as it balances on a tuft of turf as yet not browned and blown away leaving the surface of the dirt in the dying fairway…

And I can hear my father say to me

beware when it makes no sense reason is a behavior like anything else and you behave only when there’s consequences to broken rules… you needed them. You needed rules as a child and so I gave them to you…