Ernesto Trejo

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--for my father

Yesterday was Sunday. Your grandson
stared at your feet and found
the eclipse that moved for years
across your nails. He discovered
a callus, tapped it,
but it didn't go away.
Later, you dressed
while mother slept and went outside,
the leashed dog slightly
ahead of you. Nothing
was revealed, nothing given,
nothing for your tired feet
or the rest . . .
One by one the stars sank
into the patina of the new day,
the dog licked your feet, and
when the day opened like a mouth,
you walked in.

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