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A dress on a body with a face that breaks into 
a smile like mine. My little stick figure boy. 
My son, hot-headed in the yellow sun. Fum-
ing at the tips of your fingers right before the 
turn of the magic trick. Conjurer. Illusionist. 
Take a bread loaf then make a thief. This 
wave, then—look!—you in the eye of a crow. 
Were that you were only ever a bud but no. O 
bud. To observe you bloom. What unforgiv- 
able cruelty to imagine you turn, wrinkle, go 
to seed. I will long have been at sea or so they 
say. Let me get to it then: I will die & what I 
would give to unknow that you will too.