Old House

March 4, 2010
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The phosphorescent glow of the decaying wood
the blanket-thick tendrils of the woebegone house
the hot trumpets and torrid rhythms of her convulsive gesticulating hands
--in response to his interrogations
made rebuking words unnecessary.

But there, a succulent plant
tremulous, with its contorted stem writhing and rising from the broken cement
the leaf, an oblong of green
--he dredged her with somber repentance
whisked her into the house…

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