The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Total attention: cats’ to a bird beating
by the fire escape
Pointed entirely and unlike my own fish-floppy
mind bent up like this.
What’s missing from my poems, I was thinking.
Came up with love and devotion
— and the house is so cold today, and I
have a cold and daren’t bathe.
Hair is dirty.
Is poetry a diary? Or a report?
on what? The state of the moment?
The mind of the moment?
The Mind of the Moment —
what is she telling me now?
“Go eat your grapefruit, honey.”