Curly volutes of white-iced columns called the house Victorian
a hooded ell-shaped porch, screened sleeping space
on the suffocating nights kids on cots in the longyard, eyes closed to stars
without fear
jam from waspy figs, lemon rind’s musky syrup, sweetbitter kitchen pleasure, bristly orbed
amaranth to edify a hand
December clouds flatbottomed in hard blue
silverberried deerlease cedar brought into the house,fanned fronds pinched for the styptic thrill
her angry arrows, his easy drawl, the two of them not even 30 yet
how big were those rooms, the three of us, fingers’ sensuous ballasts of smoke
parking the rental at 308, the numbers checked to find the right house
bright paint of the trim quaint now
dark green walls papered with whitefleshed magnolias, her on the floor
the man’s starched white collar, that look she gave, why don’t you
oh love from the radio oh cardboard thing