on the corner of highland
and corneal the post and chain
is detached, hanging in time.
the bend not from intruders
but from someone avoiding
a kiss. she said it was too close
to home to let anything escape.
a tulip poplar take over
and my poetic heart silently
rallies for it’s roots. yes take
us down, breath in our water
before our peonies. twist into
our sewer pipes, make us
penny pinch in repair while
we wait for bloom in spring.
iii. east-side of the house
there is no break in mid-day
unless the clouds take a lunch
they sit in front of the sun, gobbling
in rest, laying fog headed on reflective pails.
still, the house wrinkles into sunburns, peeling
divets into vinyl skin. the damage is obvious:
what world would let anyone so exposed?