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On Colorado slopes
I rode the bunny hill for hours.
Dad helped me tame the little hill.
Then I hit the greens and kept falling, like a self-sure toddler
trying to run after learning to walk.

Colorado left, and years on
dad emerges from the wilderness. Like Moses
he's struck a rock.

Four kids, then three. None held in Kosher Christ assurance.
His second marriage lingers like an American mall.
He keeps falling, but he's trying

with a young woman, twenty-something, in his ears and on his tongue.
A muse in taming unspoken pain.
Yet when dad denies the lewd assumption,
I only think
of how he quit smoking for her asthma.

A white mist. A terrible collision. One ski skids off,
and another rides out.
An affair? A friend? Newfound kin? Whatever.
A man is roaring, out on the slopes.