A painting in my stare,
beauty at the stroke of mountains,
coloured in an instant, wood chopped
for building, a child
wanting to be like dad, sleeping
past noon. You asked
if I would have your children
when you passed away and I said
that the temple on the pan
handle had enough fish to fry.
That there was a people
there with strange tongue and
fresh school. For the love
of the girl and the god of
the love and the sad brown
eyes searching for
monotheism. You said that
we could swim their, that
children didn’t need to be
raised.

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