Thursday, February 12, 2009


The eye pauses,
breath scattered its imperfections;
without speaking
a dog passes,
and we're supposed to be friends.
My daughter
with her individual fingers
collectively touches my brain,
scratching new words
with a nail
about my dripping mouth.
And her ear the cup I fill
saying, sing me that song
again, father;
it sounds wrong,
or if not wrong, then oddly right.
My voice, disarmed,
picks up some other air
from a different corner,
how the tongue tastes fear,
her question counts my age.

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