once removed

spill my whistle into the soft rush
whispered to the spirit dwelling
atop the chestnut wood cabinet
rocking in his shrine, old man
his whiskers still incense-smelling
bristling with the chittering beetle
fetal posed, buried in bathwater
a heat fans out like twenty needles
his hand smooths balm on my back
he holds mine
while humming ineffable static
and softly changes channels