It’s a good idea to figure what to do with parents. 
One man I knew, after caring for them for years, 

Whenever Jesus appears at the murky well,
I am there with my five hundred husbands.
It takes Jesus all day to mention their names.

What comes out of the harp? Musk!
And there is a dance no hands or feet dance.
No fingers play it, no ears hear it,

The shrouded figure struggling to break from the coffin;
The sea giving out muffled cries by night;
The black hose damning the wild river.

Where the stone foaress shoulders the leaning city,
where vacant windows front cracked rooftiles, dislodged
   stones,

He comes to Egypt with the Crusaders. Of all the men
at the inn I'm drawn to him. Is it his eyes?
I ask with mine. He smiles and nods consent.

The best footman’s good
at sweeping up your broken glass,
has a tear for every occasion, knows

They are so busy and self-involved as I hear them muttering in the distance
that they strike me sometimes as sheer marvels:
the dishwasher filling its huge blue gullet—a cluck from the timer,

Blood flares from the nostrils.
The lungs, the enormous watermelon bellows,
are lined with it.
Legs conduits,

 On the cold coast west out of Hoquiam
I’m a stalker with a short-handled gun,
looking for dimples in damp sand to scoop out