the same forces, etched
into your great-grandfather’s brow,
monotone
by the grime of would-be soil

the same forces keeping
Angel, sinewy and fierce, locked up
even though he’s
just
a boy

the same forces your Auntie
sighs across the table, indefinitely,
wheezing under the weight
of doing every thing,
for every one

the same forces, paralyzing
that woman, on the corner,
who sits like clay
until dark,
when she crumbles
into shadow

the same forces, steeping
in anger
at softness where
a man
should be
hard

the same forces

the same

forces

the same

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