There are bleat­ing goats on the wheel­bar­row. They are unchained. They are furious.

Home park. Moonlight.

Home. Park. Moon. Light. The moss on all things felt, green, stink. The wet and blow dry. The shit­ting of birds on my hair.

Blessed are the work weeks, on the shoul­ders of clients, in the always-cold inside, sucking it up.

The portions I made up. The skim­ming of days, the per­pet­ual down­load, the yearly review. Who Are You Day. Who Do You Day. Think You Are Day.

And the horn of my days grow­ing out of my head.
There are por­tions and por­tions and portions.

There are bleat­ing goats on the wheel­bar­row. They are unchained. They are furious.

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