not a day goes by that you don’t think of him
but you’re thinking less now and you hope this is a sign
I pick at the grass and remember all the people

I’ve thought about since this conversation started—
an ex from school, Sylvia upstairs, the postie.
When I exit the roundabout behind an ASDA lorry

it’s not the A342 Northbound I’m driving on but the
freckled curve of my father’s spine. When a stranger
spots them from the layby, points a gloved hand

to the horses drinking from the lake of my father’s face
I climb the field to get a better view. In the valley
two leafless trees fill with light, become lungs.