At the tarot reading the reversed
hermit is pulled. He cannot see

more than a few steps of his

journey and must go by feel.

My father is in the grease 
pit
inspecting the belly of our ‘68

‘Cuda. I have to tell myself

he extends below the belt,

below the sweating concrete where

at his feet lie all the tools he needs.

Light falling along his forearm

pulls his face into view like a

lured moth. He is like this

in my dreams: subterranean,

crawling out of the earth

the caged bulb glowing in his

hand, alone, trying to fix things,

reassemble his marriage.