all his life my father has lived correctly

he has known sharp moments of gladness.

in the marble skyscraper

housed in a preserve of cool stone

my stepmother brushes her hair into a C fold with a small

metal clip.

My father places his glasses into a wool

case. We are animals first or maybe a wet thought

then we become dirt ocean air then nothing

not even a thumbprint not even a thumb not even the tendon that holds the thumb not even the thought of the tendon that moved the thumb.

We fall backwards to the primary thought

we sing songs we were told to remember

we become mist stains fragrances gods

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