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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