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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 long yard, eyes closed to stars
without fear

jam from waspy figs, lemon rind’s musky syrup, sweet bitter 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

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