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my wife pulls my son from the tar all his tractors blue and red now flecked with ink smoke pelican feathers bits of dead spring.

Jesus is a fisher of men the reeling never stops the line never snags the bucket for scales and skin and guts is pink and brown like mold like bruises.

it’s different in the surf

kids all blue eyed hold blue shells above their heads a trophy.

it’s not that there’s no love between us it’s simpler than that.