Half-heard words are barefoot boys,
picking their way through the alley
to the corner of King and Highland.
They are careless, stumbling, gone
into the dark. Windows, if you let
them, slink off to where the stone
drive meets the road. They wear
whatever light they can grab hold of.
A habit of squinting against the
glare, separating shape from shadow,
has resulted in this argument,
this shrewd-hearted room. Years from
here I burnt my tongue sipping
coffee on a brick porch and the
screen door slapped shut behind you.
The clock's silver hands are folded in
exasperation or appeal and the
neighborhood is suddenly quiet. Our
house is only edges and angles; it is
the crook of an arm, the joint where
bone meets bone. The door swings
open at even the slightest knock. My
hands fit over the day like a glass
over a cricket. Bristly legs bow into
trill and trill, not song but broken bits
of it. Look, this ugly, this fine form
is nothing I've ever seen before.