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it is a simpler feat to throw gels across spots,
to change shapes with light,
to engineer transitory states of light and being,
to recall cornices and curves,

than to faithfully render the line of one’s daughter’s jaw.

there are aesthetics in one’s children,
one sees clearly there are lovely lines and common uses of light,
but remains the call for push and the call for shove,
to carve the block to one’s projections in space;

this is the simplest fear of geometry …

one is faced with one’s daughter

say something nice ... or not

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