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Of my days I’m director

not author

                  and neither of us has

any money

I was born with a wooden spoon

in my ass

                  Imagine my embarrassment!

Then go ahead and imagine your own

What does a house do?

                                         That’s easy

It houses

                 just as a cloud

pulls the light from a face

when someone utters mortgage

In any other world

                                  a sweet name

for a daughter

                          beginning as it does

with a little death

Award-winning poet of 'The Trees The Trees'. Author of 'The Crying Book'. Published in The New Yorker, Poetry, & more. Former fellow at Emory.