The making of this poem took a very long time. I did not write about my father's death for almost twenty years.
I was always interested in my father's tools, especially his level, which now is mine. It is big and heavy, and over seventy years old. To barely move it is to disrupt equilibrium.
So much of working with poetry makes me think of his work: cuts of wood measured in the millimeters,
as with lines breaking, and...