And I’m supposed to not say anything vaguely
from the conscious, because a few boys say so.
And I’m supposed to neatly square everything
inside the flat cut of a porticullis.
And one says that no lists are allowed, nothing
like a catalogue, nothing where my head turns around.
And there’s still another who listens between meals
to no one but himself.
And there’s a few women there, too.
But they look like men.