—for my father, Robert Hurwitz (1939-2017)

Time circles. Every hour called not yet.
Day and night expand, contract in slanted
shadows. We measure everything by breath—
weight the air with listening for its end.
Here, we count the tempo of each rest,
imagine you, conductor, saying “Please
be sure to note my signature in time.”
How strange to see your fingers, those five lines,
now lying slack and still across the sheet.
You, who always swayed when played a phrase,
do not respond to any overture.
We sing the songs you loved until your breath
stutters, stops. The rest, we know, is silence.