In this wild quiet, my father,

where shall I look for what you are?

The wind is oaken; the firmament is beyond cavil;

the pitcher of milk is swung from the brooding hip of the louverbreasted girl—

is there not a mouth somewhere

of you from an old hunger

to come

suck?

I despise a bellyless father

But in this wild quiet I hear the cracking of hair knuckles—

like that of insects after taking off their gloves,

ready to do battle—and I remember

that just before you died I cracked your hairy knuckles for you, and I ate

for you, and I voided for you, and I battled the wild quiet.