Silver Father

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.