My father is dying.  I cannot breathe.
He is leaving home, and I now must try
to close the door and lock it with his key.

He no longer inhabits the moth-wing
pages from the book of childhood, but travels
beyond the door, inside the past, concealed

behind the rack of clothes, the story’s attic,
the place he would describe before I fell
asleep.  The book lies open on the pillow.

I shut my eyes, try to count stars or stairs
climbing always beyond reach.  It’s too soon
for him to leave.  I still must learn to place

one foot before the other and to wake
the words from sleeping letters, so I wait
for him to read the book.  When day turns dark,

the key revolves, and he, with bear-tight arms,
catches me all in air—I ride his shoe
across the wood to the unending hall.