Father, Limping Through a Field of Clover   I woke up today thinking I was a dying moose. Its Thursday, October 28th, 2021 and I woke up today thinking that I was a moose slowly bleeding to death from dozens of wounds and contusions. I must have been dreaming something like this, I guess, because I woke up thinking it. A majestic, buoyant moose. But, you know with those big heads you can’t even really turn around to lick or even see any of the blood.                                                                                                                                              I had a mother once, too.       Though it was nine months before I was born, this is exactly how I remember their wedding.     Once a year is way too frequent for anything to happen.       The camera demands that things be presented to it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Not everything has a face.     There is a building somewhere — Russia, maybe — filled with Pavlov’s restless ghost dogs. Just as there is a closet in an abandoned Toronto apartment filled with Glenn Gould’s unused handkerchiefs.   As a child, I thought I’d end up moving to the city and commuting everyday on the subway to my office job in a downtown skyscraper. Every morning and every evening I’d take great comfort in the subway ride, and the fact that it travelled far underground, below all the graveyards.     If all the words were to fall out of your bible, it wouldn’t make any difference: the bible would still be the bible.     This is what King Richard says:                                                                                    Let’s talk of grass, of worms and epitaphs,                                                                  Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes                                                                    Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.                                                                                                                                                                                                                And I would say in return, some centuries later:                                                          Make dust my paper, sparrow dust.                                                                                Hide the dead from me.             We prefer the butterfly to the caterpillar, but we are wrong to do so. Every butterfly regrets the transformation and wishes they were still a caterpillar, joyously eating, no place to go but the next leaf. Every leg so warm against the green, and no need to ever consider making more creatures. There is no future in reproduction. Caterpillars are queer; butterflies hopelessly heteronormative.                                                                                                                                           It is actually a quite simple thing to tell the dancer from the dance. When it’s all over, when the dance has been danced, the thing that’s left, the thing remaining — well, that’s the dancer.       Nothing like infinity exists.