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My Fathers Hats

 Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
 on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
 the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
 through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
 his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
 crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
 held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
 was that of clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
 sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
 on water I can't be sure is there.

by Mark Irwin
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