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READING MY SON TO SLEEPLast night, for the first time, I went down the wellmy father went down with me.It plunged deeper than the back of the little skullwhose edge lay page-thin on the while pillowand darker than the earth's dusk seeping into blot the secret passwords I spoke."Hello," I tested with each downladdering breath,the letters pattering like rain in the murkand echoing off the cavernous stone. A blink,a butterfly's tentative settle, and the slightway back had briefly closed.Another blink, and I was leftwith the aftersound of uttered entrance,my eyes guttering, my arms loose as rope.With an inward cry I could not helpI watched darkness flood the praying-book.
From The New Canon: An Anthology of Canadian Poetry (2005) by Tim Bowling.
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