There are so many ways to be told who one is and so few ways to be real. My friend coolly breaks the rules of poetry. The sky closes. I take off my rainy sneakers so the sun can burn my back through the window, so I can lie on the brown couch imagining revenge. Why bother with the letters that birthed that old foe hope? Against all word to the contrary, we are permanently children. The sky with its vast clouds is more beautiful than shutting up the glow, than drawing a thin lattice about your life.