for Bob Hass

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You made it possible, the impossibility of being
in that good place. Father and son spirited
from the long-imagined to before the eyes.

Transported from one house of poetry to the other,
a journey as short and easy as one long line.
A journey you had made so many times before

to sit and help nurse Polish into English lines.
We were all-eyes and full-hearted as we
shared that ‘second space’ with you and Mark.

Back at your house, we spied the blue-grey slate
your son had made to bed along the garden path:
“Gift”, gold-engraved; that perfect lyric poem.

Ever the poet, you wanted us to see it clearly
so you went inside to fetch a sponge to kneel
and carefully wipe away the daily dirt and dust.

Ever the translator, you went inside a second time
to better wet the sponge to wash across the poem again.

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