What is the father now, who has lost his son.
What, what is he to do? I saw him go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there he is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other sons':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the father
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His son went. I would not intrude on him,
A woman, another son, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take sons,
Sons will be lost always, little father.
And no one buys a son back. Woman is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the son is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour. I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little father.