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Be quick with the details. They run fast like small children.

Seize them by the sleeve, hook their hood, grip a hand.

Grab hold of what you can, just firm enough to keep

that wriggling body from slipping into the deep.

Else they’ll shrink from their clothes and leave you a limp phrase,

flapping in the wind of what you lived but cannot say

However you can, pause the parade

of tiny feet that pitter-patter, perpetually, across the day.

Make them stand for the camera, and give you all sides:

The angle of their jawbone, the golden iris in their eyes

Or else you’ll be alone with a slippery soul

That begs for embodiment, without flesh to mold

You’ll be following a phantom to the ends of your page

Wrestling a wind--what it moves, still untold.

Be slow with the details. They're skittish like birds.

Make camp on a bench, and get out your binoculars.

Be patient with the details, don't forget you are them;

Details are the homeland, your story's Bethlehem.

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