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A Poem: A Sort of Blindness 

There are nights when I dream.

It's my father,

and I'm an adult.

And he's in my kitchen.

So I know I'm dreaming.

And with his fists knotted in his jacket,

he offers a smirk.

"I know what you've been up to."

And he does.

You've been saying "heh" a lot.

You've been thinking you're clever.

You've been hoping silence equals shrewdness.

(You're quite taken by the theater of your own anger.)

You keep getting taken by the mechanic.

You've been giving the desperate glances of a subway voyeur.

You've been pretending to be a man.

You've been hoping someone else will put out the fire.

Now we're holding a couple of beers by a truck, overlooking a lake.

Inexplicably, we're going hunting.

"It's ok. This is how it is."

He deliberately checks the sight.

And with the certainty of a father, he tells me he knows.

But I remember it's a dream,

because he doesn't.

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