Soft eyes to the lost boy gazing, her hand poised gently, fingertips resting, you
in the Louvre seeking asylum. Poland
[ ]. The Russians
reframing as ‘liberation’ another take-over–
the Paris soup-kitchens are full of Jews &
PTSD, suddenly such intimacy.
painting the beloved
image— the yellowing of her hair
& my grandfather seeks an end
to suffering, these echoing
absences: Artur the superstitious engineer &
Ewa with a laugh like
in ripples, brushstrokes
spraying the sides.
A reason to survive
this oyster world, as swans skim the imaginary pool, hopeful
for a paper transformation or the little
reassurances amnesia brings to eyes brimming water as morning
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