"Thick rain, today, all smushed
in the moss purple of the sky,
all sweat shine in moons on foreheads."
His old eyes blink behind thick lenses,
and under a black cap, bent to the measure of the curve
of his hand: Old Willy Baptist,
holding my shoulders in experience as my feet
slip to memory.
I am sitting still in the way
his eyes are still in their sockets, still
floating onto my shoulders.
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