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home to his daughter
the grime deeper than his skin
hugs with his elbows
my city's people,
a fern of iron filings
to the magnet oil
poised with the kettle
she thinks better of it and
leaves the ants alone
cursing a moss flap
he rakes the lawn in snowboots,
shorts, hat, shirt untucked
[insert perceptive
seventeen syllable verse
without humor here]
this chinook valley
tangible Brahms requiem,
choir, spit valves and all
in spring, the first smell
of mown grass, strange to think I'll
be it when I'm gone
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