The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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One morning the squirrels came right up
to the window, their nut-stuffed faces
like five-year-olds holding their breath.
My neighbor smiles now, sings as he rakes
the humus in his garden into small patches.
Each day he splashes the new roots with water.
Sometimes at night, when the sky begins
to turn bluer than itself and sleep bobs
its big dumb head in and out of my room,
I unfold my dreams one by one, arrange them
on my pillow to form a face. Yours.