Joseph Chapman
This must be
where Lucifer fell
in N. Carolina :
the pines along the
interstate on fire
with the setting sun
and our talk in the car
pleasant enough
even though, at this moment,
we’re all thinking
about our brother’s friend,
a Navy cadet who
killed himself drinking.
We turn to you,
Lord, precisely because
you’re not here :
awkward, hemmed in
( like us ) by what you want.
I want my father
back, here with us,
though he wouldn’t
know what to say :
his silence feeding ours,
somehow comforting us
with its endless
distortion which, given
time, becomes
distance, and peace.