by Rocco Gabriel Sementelli
You do not go gently, you—
you titan of automotive industry.
Your gyrations, the centre force,
cold steel Cintas blue.
How Undone / Unfixed /Unbroken
your hands now, gnarls like knolls,
knuckles spun counter-sync, unsunk,
as weaving they through electric wires,
as swimming they through untold currents.
Your legacy dies in the veins of those palms,
crossed desert trails and oil slicks,
the stains of your accomplishment
in perfect harmony to the bulge of
your hollowed biceps, defiant orbs which
rage into the night, which rage—into the night.
I miss you already, father.
And how in an IKEA, in the winter of your years,
you threw box onto box,
one-handed, as if this world could not contain you,
some sad giant whose reach overshadowed the yellows and
blues of this too gone world; a forgotten
in his ownright.
Goddamn.—how swallowed still are these tears in my throat
How shaken shook, how shaken, shook.