the comb splits
his silver like a hand
dipped in water,
makes a hundred rivers run
skull to shoulder.
his sideburns arch,
unbridled branches
shadow his ears,
picket the pigtail,

clusters stubborn
as his left thumb.
he says, be gentle.
i gather three
tributaries, make
them meet again.
at dinner, crumbs
gather in the crease
of his shirt. his belly
globe and ocean, store
for sesame shrimp toast,
peking duck, every
unforgotten line
of Omar Khayyam, Brecht,
Tagore. all recalled
in measured tone
with wine stains
on his breast pocket,
sesame seeds
in his mustache.
he dips a broad finger
in the glass,
makes it sing.