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A clean line over
brown grass, he waves
at you and smiles, flying
with joy and not
touching feet to burnt out
clay. Apollos crafting hands
over his eyes, time kissing
gravity, Paul in the foreground,
sun stripped windows with cats
slumping, listening to flutes, gold
paint behind their head, logic centred
stars smeared on their brows.
He leaps up in your arms, boys
becoming babies, a baby into
a father, only a mystery
that brown skin could see.

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