I wish I could spend
a little more time with these ancestors.
If only I could return the favor,
give them something lacking circumstances,
cliché: the-rain-that-greets-Seattle,
the I-love-you of process and habit.
Sadly, a screen is not a face.
I inherited this gap from someone.
I inherited this depression.
The scraps of cloth that compose
this quilt stretch-to-cover-gaps,
bare evidence. This child is cold and hiding.
The monster can't hear me breathe.
It is with this insight
I hold my breath anyway. It concerns me
when I relate to songs about addiction.
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