For My Father

Last night while reading Orthodoxy in Massachusetts
and listening to a radio talk show about
the sources of "creativity" and the ubiquity
of genius in America, home of the fortunate deluded,
I fell into a swoon, a trance
in which I saw the sad face of my father.
Transported deep within myself I dreamed
although awake and conscious of the images I scanned.
Why his face looked sad I could not say.
It faded. Only the eyes remained,
grown larger, bolder until they were no longer sad
but seemed sublime as mountain peaks at dawn.

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