7-24 Grace



As I recline in this screened back porch,

three moths thump against the grid past dusk.


After weeks of baked dust,

moisture touches my cheek

and curls a paperback on the chair.


Distant rumblings never arrive.

A spittle of rain brushes by.


Off with the light.

The porch is dark as metro soot.

Drenched with pitch,

these eyes—insatiable jewels—are blind


in a pavilion of silence.





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