TIME FOUND
by David Radavich
Rilke and Proust—
two authors my father
specially loved—
sit now on my shelf
in a single book
underlined
by time.
Now in a nursing home,
he no longer reads,
scarcely hears,
his sentences break apart
like fog against
the cruel mountain,
slovenly in his sweats,
hair unkempt,
a scientist in tight,
determined dementia.
And yet I have
this book,
a reading of young
love underscored in red
that I take down
and open another
life I scarcely knew,
before the owner
had abused his wife,
neglected his children,
suffered fools
ungladly—
what life inside
before all that
bloomed and sang
and knew
a broken majesty.
I open again
and page through
these words
that live and echo
beyond the body
beyond the mind
beyond the boy
who cringed
and came apart
yet holds time still.