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You stand before me agape with a blind eye and pray for a month of new beginnings.
But it’s always this way. We break the dirge we’d sustained the whole week long – our slow winnowing, our perturbations – until the peek-a-boos, like out from behind the chair of a wise old man in his nap, the child tugging, tugging at his sleeve for play.
A-boo to you too! –
the happy face, my daughter’s
And here the face of joy – I see you, as on my hands and knees I learn once more to crawl.