District Porch

On the front porch of

my sister’s District rowhome

September reds

breach the green

like an early monsoon,

a wave of the knowledge

of death, taking its turn.

A woman

takes her turn

onto Oates Street.

I understand

those men who dwell

in hell on the pavement.

She, masked, under a

green tunic,

rounds the corner.

Why those men might call,

call, call at her curving bones —

I understand the man; that

he needs to be seen by her,

made beautiful.

And the reds come up for air;

reality turning towards itself eternally.