Wade Oliver

MY fathers’ bones lie buried deep

In ribbed rock and shifting sea,

And yet my fathers vigil keep

Above the sentience that is me.

Along my brain’s white commisures

Their lives, a subtle lightning, play,

Lighting the dusk in which endures

The psychic something that was they.

Within my farthest consciousness

The lightnings flash; electrons move,

And sweep from unformed lifelessness

To life which bids me hate and love.