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.

Recent Posts

See All

move

He moved across the forest They moved across the forest It moved across the forest moved across the forest elephantly. across the forest under the autumn star the azure trees the fruit of rippling way

that Beauty

that beauty shadows on the grass moon; hand; dance come alive, remember you, remembered reborn, we cannot sleep dreams have no answer but deep, close to the heart they say be seen, dream with one anot

A Secret

The sun someday will be love again. The mountain someday will be sand. The land in the end will begin again, and flowers grow out of its hand. I remembered an ancient poem, held under the tongue of a