dad_bday.wmv

It would perhaps be funny –
How I can’t help but watch.

His eyes are closed in the unlit corner –
I’m using up memory recording Rosie’s weeping.

A hand is held for a sheet to be creased.
A face is only a face when it moves.

Over the course of my re-visitation
I have realised that I am the orbit for that which cannot,

And that, record as I might, these
Views still come to their ends.

I have realised what it means to smell the coldness
And feel the sunshine of a life outlived.

In truth, I’d rather watch you do it
Than have to do it myself.

But such is my build:
I must disclose my close-ness.

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