New Jerusalem, Population: Strawberries

Wondering why the fifth grader knocked people over like saying hello, our gentlest observed: It’s snowing.  We’re in coats, he’s not.  Look at his hands.  He pounds the wall.

You understand, he chided, about discipline—and wire hangers.

(It is a mother coveting other people’s cars.  It is a father rich in spring flowers).

Michael—I wish we had found your earring, but in those days of revelation, playground sand glittered—semiprecious stones in the City of God.

I was born on a makeshift football field, running—between the tearing of cloth and you, three chattering hellraisers upon you, pulling unstoppably forward.

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