The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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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.