More on: working class

A poor printing, eye blight, a spine of straw, the threshed and winnowed word, heaven unhusked, a kind of seed unpacked, conspicuous fantail, fishy contraband, rendered law, thunder’s ragged hymnal, bottomless wineskin warped from deluge and drying with the hay, frozen, frostbit, thawed and sighing like the heart, prodigal returned, a glass- bottomed boat, God…

No you’re not a saint because you spare the maid a stubborn skid mark by swiping the bowl clean with an oven-mitt- sized toilet-paper wad during the one mid-flush moment between water’s vanishing and return before you step under the turbo multi-jet gleaming steaming solid-brass showerhead so brilliantly designed to make you feel exactly as…

You, who seek grace from a distracted God, you, who parse the rhetoric of empire, who know in your guts what it is but don’t know what to call it, you, good son of a race of shadows— your great fortune is to have a job, never ate government cheese, federal peanut butter— you, jerked…