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      April 29, 2015FathersMike White

      This one saws the board.
      This one sees the board
      but does not saw it, or not
      as his father sawed it.
      This one saws
      his kids in half
      but does not see it.
      This one is bored.
      This one still sees what he saws,
      his second wife says.
      This one saws to have something
      real to seize.
      This one for the scent of pine.
      This one for the sound.
      This one sees saws
      as everything around him
      comes slowly crashing down.

      from #46 - winter 2014

      Mike White

      “‘Fathers’ is clearly a playful poem. Though more and more I see all poems—even deathbed poems—as rooted in an impulse to play. After all, aren’t we most in earnest, and most ourselves, when we’re playing? Aren’t we never more fully alive?”