Falling asleep in this chair
giving way to tinnitus
the sound of angels singing through a sprinkler
Fighting age, jogging in the empty
Swimming, in the bay, pre-empted by
a daily walk
My father’s whiskered shadow
from the white room above
the bathroom mirror
the kind of order that deposits
driftwood, along the beach
and here, a blanched hue of stone.
About the author:
Eric Jason Silverman is a poet, essayist and novelist. He lives in San Francisco with his wife and daughter.