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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.

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