Every night it comes in storms. A week later I have collected it in poems, this one and that one, a poem for Sunday, a poem for all of us, a poem for none of us. Moving through the hazel forest on a streamlined train of want and nighttime need, here comes that weight again. And I go into the plumet, muddy boots and all. For each action a reaction, red wine pressed against my bones. They need to make us better at the factory, a duplicate brain to forget with and another hairy chest to woo the maidens. Very carefully selecting a nice card for Mama, this year I am a little different, too busy to notice that they have placed you crying into your grave.