Tuesday, April 10, 2012


Estranged from every home, I am closer
to the one I left eight years ago. Remember again
the green anoles, the color of thrasher eggs (white or green, 
always flecked). The way the humid air buzzed, was thick with insects
like glittering specks of dust. The doves, the nut tree’s bitter leaves,
the afternoon shimmer over the street.
The tiny gold hook on our white
dining-room window shutters.
The light. The lush.
The rainstorms.

No comments:

Post a Comment