Framed
but kept in the desk drawer,
proof I did once fit in the brown bend of his arm. Proof too that he gave me his dark-eyed smile, then nothing more.
He stands tall beside Family.
A drooping pear tree in that rented English garden, that corner of July sky. I am days old.
I am days old too, years later,
You look just like— but nothing of the sort.
The alarm is set for seven-thirty,
the table set for three on cold formica grain. Distance is relative, but I’m not designed for walking on the wings of planes.
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