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It has a yellow stain
markings that mire its purity of black and white.
Black-white?
Yes it _was_ colour, but it was a black-white day,
I remember.
Now they are just markings,
strokes of silver nitrate photosynthesised on the page.
I peer close,
eyes half closed and see
the elementary chemicals, compounds, bonds.
Components
quarks,
the building blocks of matter
and there—
sliding between those indescribable quantum lights
is the snow, falling in real life.
How very small I was then.
I feel the pricks of ice,
the soak of cold shoes
lick the bark of the unyielding trees
rough brown bodily warmth.
Behind me is the house.
They are in there
if I don’t look.
The lost teddy
the lost father
the lost mother.
If I don’t look.
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