Afternoon in the spillway, walking. In an empty
lot nearby, six boys play. Over ocean, upon stone,
feeling the texture of a shell, coral, fish bone,
fin. One boy punts it. For that moment the ball floats
in endless blue. The seas became shallow, dried
layer upon layer, ocean sediment, millions
of years, calcified. I can't believe how light
my father is. 88 pounds. We’ve seen the imprint of a leaf
in mud, a shoe print, a hand. I slide my hands under
his arms, lift him out. We’ve seen bones in a forest
slowly covered by leaf rot, and then soil. I lift him
to my chest, guide him awkwardly, the bag
of his catheter hooked in my pocket. I help him
into the wheelchair, pulled into pressure
and heat and compacting stone.
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