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The heartís church, the gravel and plankings,
the angelfood cake in the basement: the angels

hate it and we do too. For there are two of
everything, scapulas, femurs, occasions for

being, etc. The hooks, the legs in your pants,
angels and us, we are not angels and are glad.

(obviously glad) (my hands full of cake).


Creating yellow, getting out of the cold war,
more oranges, we try to talk with only the

clouds listening, those brave little bags, and
you love the linear, and the curved, it loves you

too, and we, curving and curving, the dissolve,
the yes and yes, I make a hoop with my arms,

and thereís you, rolling through.


Remember, stay in your body. Thereís these
all the time things happening, like the clean

house (how did it get that way?) the numbers,
their mapping of the dream world, is folly,

(who put them in that order?) raincoats in
the tropics, would keep the lushness

outside, it cries in, in, in.


Braiding. Proof of life that can explain
what we ourselves canít say. How

the music took over when we sat.
The risky light, all over everybody!

Whatís comingís almost here! Breaking
the order of things, like here. Being here.

Without dropping your arms so your kid can hug you.