Curved like a scythe when the rain comes,
shadows collect like tears in your open palm.
So, my angel-haired darling, my sweetheart
of the smoke: dream easy and fall hard.
At night, I see you standing erect,
the mountains above curved like your spine,
the silhouette of your body a still life
painted vaguely on an empty field.
What kind of father does it make me,
who refuses to bend down to touch you?
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