Apart in breath

‘It’s his lung,

You see?’

He wastes air; old

willow, casts out over

auburn lakes;

invisible shades wake

in

the depthless breadth;

the overture left

to cleft in breath

that he struggles to still

as if he were

weighted

on his child’s

tiny traced

tip

toes, in an empty corridor

walked passed every night,

too afraid

of the rasping gyres

behind the door

way to father’s breath

‘Yes, it’s his lung’

hiding the cancer

of being told

‘It’s his lung’

and when they say it

he feels it

and when he stops listening

and lays under his parasol

of the willow fall,

in the heat of a hazy sun’s

adumbral afternoon,

he billows over the lakes;

a swallow in his soul.

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