I was sleeping on a mirror, dreaming about my drowned son when the tide came in carrying me out to sea. Finlay woke me knocking on the glass, was it his reflection or the tattoo of his face on my back that he saw?. Finlay appeared again in the glass at the top the tree he used to climb, he held a mirror with his face turned away in which his reflection was drowning, then the tree became wax but the fruit was real and vice-versa. angels climbed branches of frozen lightning placing synthetic tears on leaves helping me to rehearse this senseless grief, angels left a letterbox without a door and on my son's birthday the after-draft of wings flows lifting the letterbox to reveal Finlay's eyes.
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