Seeing brims over our things fills  teacups, anchorages, closets ,balconies into the night, sunlight’s spaces in tall trees ,corners where a mom meets a shadow, the lizard on a wall.

Seeing is a water not spilling from child’s hands clasping the glass with both his hands feet in slow measured motion or the child’s squatting on the floor drawing feet together to cry ,opening and closing his feet like tentacles,in beach sand on their way back to the sea.

Seeing is yours in my words. Old woman is emitting a light ,a camera’s laughing at death.

Seeing is her skin’s wrinkled cloud drained of future rain.


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