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  • My father was the heavy sighing beneath the hard ice we walked on.
    His yellow smoke fingers browsed through old newspapers.
    He was like the spirit in the bottle, except only the sulfur smell was back, just contour, chewing on a sausage in bread.

    He fed us with dreams we had ceased to believe in. Dry dreams hung shriveled in his gray hair.
    Mostly, we were afraid of him.
    I grasp the fact that once he was a child too.
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