My father maps the darkened ways to light
Beneath eternal stalactites that hang above the grave
Of man - cartographer of Plato's cave,
Silver-bearded Atlas bearing constellations on his back in spite
Of pain, arms like barrels of wine - and at the world's height
He brews wisdom in a silver chalice like a knave
Living in the sunset of all ages, playing his lyre in the conclave
Of the happy, for the golden, ever golden banquet hall's delight.
My father is a wolf, dragging home
An infected wound he will not lick -
For his cubs might even need the silver foam
Of his saliva, if they are sick.
My father has designs on time no artifact
Can hope to have, unless it be
By imitation of his heart - in lieu
Of this, call down the curtain on his act
And say my father is more strong than me,
And you will see, more silver-light than you.