Depth of field

Not everything can be brought
into a sphere of perfect

The father who left many times
in the night, as if each time
was the last time.

The mother who collected
her strings of beautiful
hard tears.

And you too, and you, and you,
hiding in the bathroom
under the sink

until the terrible
waves of wind
have passed.

What is your favorite
—someone asks.
There is one

which opens with a shot
of lemons on a table.
At last,

there are times
when it can actually
be as simple as that.

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