Comments Off on untitled23.1 Poetry, Writing, Issue 9

By Marc

                                                                                                                             When I get home I am right
with my things
a delicate and
dilapidated war zone
of weathered beatings
dust colony proceedings creaks &floor squeaks
that batter &hum to the drums of feet
weeds &vines of arterial emerald that twist and
shout their way up the concrete &tinge with such severity &honesty that
they were best left in solitude
our driveway paralellaligned in
perfection with (formerly)
tender green grass
crisply cut with
craft, care, and devotion,
reflects my father
I stop for a moment with a photograph

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