My father had a soft way of viewing the world.
The landscape would lie gently upon his eye.
Tenderly, he rubbed the feet of newborns.
Delicately, he glued broken Christmas ornaments.
Sympathetically, he listened to Erik Satie
patiently spell out feeling, piano key by key.
He was a sensitive man, people said,
and I always knew.
But I also saw what the world did not,
the severe anger,
older than he or I,
that resided somewhere
between the ribs and the spine.
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