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Feedback Because what isn’t Fed back? A time and place For everything, my mother said, But everything is A time, a place, If you know to trace. I carry my own face And my mother’s, And my father’s Graceless shape; Both are overlaid. A boy, I tried to rail against The sect of men Who pick up rage but fell Among the ranks anyway. A boy, I was made Effective in a lowly way, a ditch In which this country’s scat Falls fat. When you’ve seen the image Become word, the word Become image again, “In the beginning” seems A useless trope. Don’t speak to me of ends. I’ve seen the legislated ditch In which you’ve dropped The dispossessed and young, hoping We’d choke on our own Mass. Why would you think that Would last? Grown, we’ve come Into our own, we’ve seen it all Must be overthrown— We, the people, the rank, the poor Muscled things The ditch spits back.
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