The dot
bobbing in binoculars was

it was

and they
flung the ready red canoe, flew from their life-
guard overview—

Where in this wound-up crowd
time running out

was my father

Because he was mine

Because his skin smelled like he smelled

Because he opened his eyes
and flat on the sand his chest in seashore ripples

Because he was mine

I licked salt off his face

Published in Salamander

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