Bless the dreamers, the shouters—their courage  

a bright, blunt knife. But some others are too tender 
for the sun. Some bodies are porch-bodies
on their best days: peeling paint bodies, drawn 
shade bodies, sanctuary bodies, absent bodies.
 Bodies in the air of a closed room—bodies
that spring alive against the screen—
 
See how they move in the dark—a careful
architecture of ache and adaptation. 
 
Outside, the glitter kisses the pavement
under streetlamp.  
Inside, they keep their wilderness  
unmapped—a secret even to the oak tree,  
whispered to the moths that batter
the porch light’s dusty globe.  
 
Their gifts are precious gifts: sometimes 
a poem, a whittled figure of soap, a bell jar 
of blackberries and sweet cornbread
stained with their thumbprint.
A hundred million signs left
on the neighbor’s lowest step.
 
Who needs proof? Scout
their ritual: their window cracked  
just enough to smell the rain. You can’t watch
the way they touch the small of their own wrist  
at dusk—gentle, sure—leading 
themselves outside to the moondrunk porch
all on their own terms.