For my father

My father’s fingers
yearned for the chalk dust
on the hands of a teacher,
the wiped-off words –
the ashes of a lesson.

He held a diamond,
but not for show,
a hard knife-point.

With precision born of need,
he cut panes of glass.
And so, brought home his pay.

• Throne of weapons

• The light of the paint

• Still movement

• Self-portrait with monkey

• The gaze of the dwarf

• In the depth of the cloth

• At the margin

• The circle

• Ruins

• The burning house

• Plutôt oiseau que pájaro

• 22 June 1937

• Ship of several trees

• To read a language

• And Paris gave me birth

• Dead word

• My mother died in London

• It was my son, my father

• Lesson on the beach