Snow

 Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.

He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.


My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.

I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.

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