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Sport 41: 2013

[Untitled]

After lunch my mother walks into the dining room
and my father and I both
blow our noses.

In the past when I thought about people my parents
were somehow
not among them. But some wound stayed

wide in all of us, and now I see in their
faces strange rivers and waterfalls, tilted over with broom.
I am watching the brown-paper covers of books grow

about my father, as he dreams there
against the wall, thinking perhaps
how rocks are not quite lands.