When you remember something, you see it again,
and that vision replaces the original memory.
You draw a picture of a rocking horse
with the legs too long, the sickle feet
curving from nose to tail,
and you glue it into your old family album.
The glue invades the photographs
like the sunlight in your backyard
when you were a child, stampeding
on the lawn with merciless prints,
overexposed and quickly losing focus.
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