Tell him not to look so intense.
The house shakes and that word
is meaningless, anyhow.
I was like that once, only
looking at a map of river deltas,
sunken green land between tawny ridges,
it seemed as if the inevitable rising tides
might stretch as far north as Minnesota.
Or that I would have to kill my father.
It never came to either.
At the sea’s edge,
where Freud caught eels,
and sharpened his scalpel,
a thousand pebbles dried.
We think we know the world too well,
inventing convenient melodramas,
exit strategies, complications
to be met with knitted brows.
Svalbard: perhaps I’ll go there.