After Jericho Brown
In the dream, I buried my father
Then ran toward the mountain set on fire.
Running back to the mountain set on fire
Meant returning home to where I was raised.
I returned to the small blue home, raised
Dust searching for boots that belonged to me.
The leather boots my father bought me
In youth so I would learn what work was.
As a young man I thought I knew what work was,
But my hands never callused or blistered.
My hands are still soft. Scarcely blistered
From working, not on work, but on words.
Shaping words, I'm told, is its own work—
Dreaming, I buried words then my father.