Just as clouds root briefly in the clefts of hills
my father’s saw dangles till I come like a marauder
to allow his time this escape: Look at me, clever
Bristow, angel I wish could see me here, lost
old man who counts every thing,
those hedge clippers are beginning to have
to answer a few questions as I disappear into
a grownup so like you it’s a laugh,

so if I flex them gently it’s no destruction
when your screwdriver becomes like a dime
and God comes to us as we come to this planet

naked and afraid and small. I was scruffy
when you died, like a neglected windowsill,
but now I’m clear as a old jar full of shiny
new nails and I rise like the lid of your toolbox
to present the world with fresh uses.