Sonic

For my grandfather, Tomàs

I only know what I am told.

Such as the continents you wish to conquer,

charted on maps on a decaying wall, a memento 

of islands and archipelago, en tous lieux, scattered.

Or the waves entombed in the cache of your

journal, flagged by the red ribbon suspended

in its spine: surfing every crease and precipice

of every place you named but cannot recognize.

Your hands are instruments of your salvation. 

The pipes, electronics, and homes you fixed and built,

your labyrinthine legacy. Penance for a wasted youth.

I remember the timbre in every plank you used,

the lilt of your longings ascribed in pencil, on footnotes,

using verses of Job, willing the mountains to be moved, 

but I know you are never satisfied.

You never address me by name, but I remember every

story told. Some whispered and some wailed,

contained in your property, to be savored and saved.