My granddad and his electric garage opener:
flicking it up, flicking it down, perpetually. To see it work.
I was 5 and loved it.
The air in the view of continuous vistas
discerns the leaf the way a leaf
turns each season of leaves.
The wind becomes a bashed thing. Ola, factory beacons
tinge the atmosphere with their spokes.
My grandfather played golf but during bad games
took it out on the golf cart.
Flipped one, one time.
A doctor, he was used to this. Quit whining,
he would tell himself.
When my grandfather had his final, life ending stroke,
he had the strength to shake everyone’s hand in the room
leaning up in the bed, shaking, his eyes
oceanic, open, like blue lights.
The smoke in the glass: endless fields.
Of celery, wheat, brain trees, missing-person pamphlets.
The pirouettes of a forgotten dancer like a ghost throwing a ball
for an absent dog in the stoniest parts of rushing water.
A plank full of nails
on which the cooks place
copper bowls of soup.