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Off screen my father’s son
role casts him to me in word,
Dad: that one syllable
gold bath bubble
reopening our shared
half brother tunnel
where I listen to what was
till the pop:
I hear me gun it in neutral
I hear darling let’s date now,
sandpaper these big flaws
into smaller echoes
for subsequent lovers
since the past as likely to scurry
as a post from its fencing
but memory little more than story
we hum into the cerebrum
boomeranging as joy
and/or misery. To make it
believe it is
so imagination a world
(running along this one)
where you’ll wait
for the rest of your life
if lucky: there, even the maggots
are made of stardust /
the rabbits chocolate
and if you drive slow
you can catch the moon
in a mirror
while the mouth
who first told you the L word
yells and yells
and it feels like a kiss.

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