I’m a wasp. You know, the off-white angloquite-saxon kind, who’s protestant too, what’s worsea male. I talk in rhymes. Take your darts and throw. I’m perfect at this target thing,so large and slow. Look close. My teeth are false. I drive a Ford.At church, I sing “Just as I Am” and think it could be true. Successfor me comes with HDTV, which I keep tuned to celebrities,but sometimes—at night when no one sees—I diagrammy secret fears like shadowed branches ona wall, and I recall a scrap of poetry about some huge, huge hillwhere truth stands.Asleep, I climb with broken feet and empty hands.
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