The boy placed his glass of water on the centre of my desk,
touched the thin meniscus and said
It feels like this
then pushed his finger through the water’s skin.
I noted the refraction, his finger enlarged and broken.
In retirement I remember this, and dream of flies
hatching from flakes of my skin.
When I look in my mirror I see
beads of sweat. A moth, wings folded, on my shaving light.
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