The waterlilies have been
fascinating him
since the days
before he began
painting or inhaled Monet.
.
He tells me that. We
stand in the pond’s desert.
An October moon searches
for us. We hide our innocence
from its beams. The shrubs
bleed us, make us pale.
.
He fails to draw his daughter.
He tells me about the pressure
he feels while sketching heart.
I ask him about her whereabouts.
He says, «Gone with
the waterlilies to the other water.»

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