I am reading a thin book of poetry
to my little girl who lies in her bed
trying not to wake up
The book is thin, not its content,
the words are deep and wide like the ocean
in Kho Pi Pi after the tsunami
Turquoise over turquoise, a crystal plateau,
through which I can see my feet
looming the ocean floor
Walking I feel the time and the weight
of dead waves and I recall
I have no child at all
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