Some we know more of than ourselves
for we have held them,
measuring the space of their life in a breath.

Some we know only of:
A distant glowing city may be spotted by its smoke,
like exhaling winter onto a pane of lighted glass.

Your body is a warm furnace seen through a window.

I suppose deep down I hope,
One day, to have Garrison Keillor read a poem
I have written for my father, only when
He and I have had time to really hash it out
after he is dead: I will write
With sadness a verse about that winter you waged war
With the thick ice
The plow could not scrape up, and how I would find you
in the corner of the driveway, dutifully spreading salt
As if scattering ashes.