Tuesday, January 5, 2016


Putting on the name I never use
I went to visit Ragg whom a poet
Wrote about when my great grandfather
Was eight and spending his days
Wondering if he should allow his thoughts
Which had been much about frogs and beetles
To stray towards God and girls
Though not necessarily in that order.
Ragg, being in prison, is always at home.
She accepted the chocolate I brought
And read my palm. "Your great grand father
Had red hair. He brought me tears.
Your grandfather had strange eyes.
He was so strong! He might have moved mountains;
He sang for me. Your father knew
The languages of animals and brought me messages
From the King of the Cats. He said if you came
You might tell me a story. Begin!"

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