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Picture of Me

I do not see you. What you are
may be like a star
I see – that exploded years before,
or like a crack of a door
through which streams light of a candle I lit
amid furniture and walls that I made,
my memories appearing on the TV screen,
interpretations of what I thought I heard,
what I understood you to be and mean.
I called you my wife, my daughter, my son,
and what you turned out to mean to me
floated within the orbit of my attachments,
accommodating what I could see,
my estimate of your potential powers
more an estimate of what relates
to my picture of me.

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