An Untitled Poem Written on the 18th of January, 2025.

When I was ten years old my father took me to see a show
of Christopher Pratt.
His road trips.
Square horizons and abandoned installations.
concrete and the Fisheries Research vessels.
And sailboats.

Pages from his logbooks next to the artwork.
I couldn’t read the cursive script
my father spoke
about Salmoneir and Aberdeen,
the long drive to Copenhagen.

I was on the boat that day
when the stars broke free.
We pulled over to take photos.
Put them in your pocket
nothing will hurt you there.

MCMXXXIX – MMXXIV