Stan's letter
weighs on my mind
the world is too full of sorrow
and fathers too full
of forgetfulness
and more than his letter could have hoped
or attempted
to express
but this correspondence falls to me
where far from his son
Stan's new dreams begin
literary criticism
is still already at work
I cannot tell him this
departure from the anarchy of my sphere
will come at a cost
but a cost
and for a benefit
that benefits no one
but it's too late now
for me to recommend
to Stan the benefits I have found
in the receding confines of my dream
(still the old dream)
where my sons
I fervently hope (for such is my plan)
can always find me dreaming
