There was a disturbance of night         a thrill of hills,

             a whip of road                      worth watching.
You’ve dreamt him reappearing         since you were a child,

           from some crag of rock              some crack     of morning
and there he was          slender fox

           wending              through the headstones.
I always knew             my grandfather

            was patient                 as slow-melting
snow,                but when I say

             his name         I still can’t get it right—
some syllables cut        like wind

            others curl like	            wildfire.
So we’re by the road again                  ignition off

            & everything glittering,                      frost
on the windscreen.     My mother’s

              blue cardigan	            smudges into midnight,
but we can’t tell          if he’s still there

           or if the night               is a door
leading nowhere,          so I write the poem

             the song                       the score for breath
to fill the aching silence.          If you find him,

            I’ll be waiting.	                        If you find him, let him go.