My father says that I write such pretty poetry, that when I write such pretty poetry
musical notation lifts my shoulders as if my pink dress were being hung by clothespins.

My father no longer exists, for my father who no longer exists as a physical being
I pretend each song my cell phone is a music box, and I'm temped to connect a dimebox to it.
What is a dimebox, I ask my father? He who no longer exists says, Everything beautiful in this world is free except for music.
(I put a coin in the tiny coffin attached to my phone; it reminds me that a maginician's crib can hide a body.)

My father reaches down for his hands, no, my father reaches down for me with his hands,
shakes me on the left shoulder each morning right before my alarm goes off.
Lover asks, How do you wake up one or two minutes before the alarm goes off each morning?
I tell him it that the hand of God nudges my left shoulder; he knows I'm a liar.

My father reminds me of an air-conditioner, the air-conditioner reminds me of my father's consistent