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Bittersweet mornings

tracing my father’s back

howling in summer grasses

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Juncture

Waiting, framed by flaking white paint curls and whispers, falling too soft, among the voices that roar, suck smoke cycling converging exhaust through each breathy gape Waiting, beneath the feather streamers, cold, lingering, while others rubbing forearms, spurning contact pause too brief for feeling Watching the wall— those shadows wobbling in front of it—against better judgments, the wan exchange of interests, sipping acrid drinks . . .