Five Ten
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A beach, hot Carolina, we were there,

my dad under blue umbrellas

breast-pocketed and me on the sand

looking up and sideways. the

ocean wound itself against thighs like

the making of yarn, very finite. I was

against his leg, younger than five—before the

epoch- and world-again

of the child becoming, her brain spitting through

her moonlit nose. Before the law had done its work.

Dad was telling me "five, ten fifteen

twenty, negative twenty-five,

negative thirty


there I go into the negative

world again." ticklish!—somewhere on this

beach there must be a clock. I felt for it in his hair.

I asked him, today, if he remembers, and he doesn't, I do,

He remembers the ocean, being older, being the father, see;

fifty, fifty-five, sixty, till he goes negative again.

And, didn't I tell you, once? Late night, dialed up

bodiless on a server rack in Utah

that has been replaced years ago.

Of sand: It felt like there used to be more

than what there now is.

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