The people in my family are the physical ghosts
united by our particular sense of industry
and a brutal kindness hidden in our throats
We heap the memory meat into great quivering mountains
We have never written memoirs
or held particular views
We are the ultimate blank slate
adhering to this sentimental
pride in the retreat
We are prototypes who long for the dry winter
who bring hopeless words to the city congregations
who await glass rain
hot cutting us down
in our new leather shoes
