Where a child was, the small fact of falling
snow that was once rain.
The past watches as the rain collapses
around trains that run off in all directions.
There, your father translates himself to water so he might let rain. Let ruin.
The past he takes with him.
You no longer recognize the night
at the windows, nor the lights of Warsaw obscuring his eyes.
His mother, you find later in her letters. Yellow legal pads like elegies.
He never learned how to write.
You write instead to exist
where time does not.
Instead, windows fall past you. His voice is a place
no one will fall from. A hinge
is a multidirectional listening device. You learn holiness
means it is possible to be everywhere but invisible.
If the past has no end. If everyone you love is alive there.