Our life was an accident, the flames were conjured by an indifferent couple.
So much time has passed, their union dissipated with the dumb carcass of our home.
This house has been all of our housesÐ our parents colluded with emptiness to conceal this fact.
We live from cairn to cairn, burning refugee hearts, each mistake receding in the rear-view mirror,
each incipient disaster breaking the night like headlights falling on a new city.
Fountain Street
there is a large hand unfolding above me, discreetly
it conceals a black man surrounded by a thin tincture of green like the moon eclipsing the sun
I am to give obeisance to him and his firm brothers lurking in the gardenÐÐ they strip me of my childhood casually with the relative calm of a standard play, the rising action, apex, and dnouementÐÐ
in the formation of sleepwalkers they withdraw silently into the past