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i think my lola’s carpets in winter, the way

the dust would cling like dew would cling like


frost, rising with the inbreath and out

of the arches of our feet, porch to inside.


i learned the word ‘liberal’ from the radio, crossing

from gingerbread tin to the sink in the kitchen.


just the birds on the clock and the Last Supper saw me.

all night, i whispered it. nobody heard.



i think the future the windows in winter

how rising one morning i tap the gaskets


basketwoven on a corner of the glass. again i think

snow! and again i’m mistaken; it’s a crack;


the last owner kept the windows too clean, and some poor bird –

but that was a lifetime ago, when this place had a porch.


your bones creak architectured against mine,

and we settle in our plaster bodies, and we hear the rain.



i think the sound of my lolo sleeping on corduroy.

the blown-open night that leaned on the fence.


renovation is a good word for nothing left.

not the tennis balls. not the bowie knives. not my lola


slippering down sildenafil 20 mg cost the hall in the dead of Christmas-eve dawn,

her ear tuned to the radio in the kitchen as if listening


for the bird that, in a matter of decades,

would hit the living room window