The same rain falling on us
with dreary sincerity
fell on the Great Dead, so-called
despite there being nothing
great about being dead.
Write every day, I was taught.
Better yet, the rain said,
emulate the garrulity of piped-in music.
Also the point of what two or more
exclamation points in a row is.
And when you browse the pawnshops
and the green spray of hills,
setting off various car alarms,
forget, if you can, the children
at the gates of the orphanage.
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