I come to see, in the gasp between
our love making, when there’s nothing
there, when the emptiness
is so full I forget to like my pain –
that mean fathers produce
truth tellers, lovers who gaze lost, seeking, us
deep in the earth, with eyes hopeful
like a child’s eyes, wet and glistening, arriving –
we look at our lives to find the meanness
but stumble upon what is actually there,
what is there? A slippery ease, a claiming,
some raw and ragged glory of the overcome,
of coming, going,
of getting and going home.

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