Having many things on her mind, mainly militancy and genetics, Kate averted her eyes, wondering how many times the cashier in the supermarket would ring up the price incorrectly.
When are we, why are we, we people of the Third,
of the incorrect distinction—violently albine
and waiting with open eyes.
Harry said that we of the torched
Gaelic inscriptions are loudly
unreasonable, making anti-governmental
intervention devices in
our damp houses; how have we reaffirmed
our strength to dea with
this situation?
No is what we say to you in the night
when it is dark. No is what we say
to you from the dead mines of
upstate Pennsylvania. We are the flushed face boy
standing before the armory in tears,
an unwilling sanctuary for
your noncommittal sympathies.
– Caroline Burns