The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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I have had the most wonderful dream.
My neighbor is playing a flute in the back yard.
I don’t even like my neighbor.
You wouldn’t either if you knew him.
All the hedges are cut down; I can see everything.
Right there in the yard: goats;
some men in skullcaps praying;
candelabra in the garage
throwing off yellow light.
They are just concluding the service.
I realize this happens every morning.
Somehow it escaped me all these years.
I’ve been getting up too late.
The houses are smaller and closer together,
blending over time, cliff dwellings.
You can hand a cup of sugar from house to house.
There is no room for my boxes anymore,
the ones labeled spells, rainy days, and reasons for things.
This doesn’t bother me, although
nothing in my life justifies such a dream.
It belongs to someone I don’t know,
into whose head I’ve wandered by accident.
He builds a house of forgiveness.
Patience is his back yard.