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I feel terrible.
I want this very poem
to change me.
They correct me when I say you are tolerant.
You are supportive! And when proofreading
is done in a church I am genuflecting.
The hawk does not know the song about it
but you do. You walk out of the room
without kissing me.
I am like a child who has to stand on the counter
to dance with its mother.
Stand, mother.
This weekend I’m armed.
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