In this wild quiet, my father,
where shall I look for what you are?
The wind is oaken; the firmament is beyond cavil;
the pitcher of milk is swung from the brooding hip of the louverbreasted girl—
is there not a mouth somewhere
of you from an old hunger
I despise a bellyless father
But in this wild quiet I hear the cracking of hair knuckles—
like that of insects after taking off their gloves,
ready to do battle—and I remember
that just before you died I cracked your hairy knuckles for you, and I ate
for you, and I voided for you, and I battled the wild quiet.