The criss cross leaves, against
the dark but paler sky
seen through the waving leaded glass
(installed in nineteen thirteen,
before those ANZACs had heard
the name Gallipoli)
A wind comes through them
and they come to a boil all at once,
the leaves, bubbling like a ramen pot;
and behind them the clouds are breaking,
and pools of light collect like the
ovals of olive oil
my son (just that age)
pours in to make the noodles
heartier. Tell me
that just this once
it doesn't have to happen again.
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