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August 3, 2008
Most days my son

stands in the open

green and fair field

pushed up against

our house

picks weeds

stuffs them into pockets

headdown

along my legs

itís at this moment

the sight of his brown head

the trees the field the two

the world reveals itself

unfolding immensely

clouds crushing him

the world, real

I pull him into me

want him to know the difference

between his own legs and mine

want him to feel his weight

is no longer his own

want him to know

no space between us

I lift him so high

heíll forget the ground