From Windows in Afforable Suburb

From Windows in an Affordable Suburb

The scent of coffee crosses a compact kitchen, and a long morning follows;

This is winter break in sunny chill, a distortion I cannot name, but for fence

posts soldiering the same wear and their stains watered to bruises,

blackened by ice-grafts, light-shed to scars.

They are the edge of it all,

making a private edge of a little brown back island emptied from the first.

Construction doesn’t  work around trees these days…but they do leave ghosts,

and that energy is still screaming where it was scrapped.

I imagine those root bowls trying below the freeze, gathering themselves

to trouble up each spring, but in curl or tendril, their offerings shoot

up a pain of green, just to drop like hosts before summer’s alter.