The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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the grasshoppers are ruffling in the grass.
it sounds like rain.
i think it is raining.
every time they land or spring
in the dry grass, it sounds
like a wet splash. the blackbirds
with their iridescent blue throats
come out of the sky.
they get the grasshoppers.
it seems right. they are happy
when they swallow a grasshopper.
they hop and make a throaty trill
that sounds like happiness.
what else could it be?
the grasshoppers are not beautiful,
though i saw one out on the road
last week that was huge and green,
a primitive, plated green
with brown markings like diamonds
and hieroglyphs —
an egyptian jewel grasshopper.
its back end was squashed, and
it was mailed in armor, primeval,
fascinating. stuck there.
it seems to me they deserve
to be eaten. the chain of being
is also the chain of