Time sponged away light
like a summer, dying
and became its own image
I traced my fingers
over Father’s forehead
and asked why he had ‘cracks’
The more lines I have, the smarter I am
Do they hurt?
No, they don’t
What music in the measure –
pianissimo before proverb
His language a lesson
like a dove or a meadow
said only enough
to stay my hand
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