|the porch door|
is not a set of words
it’s a thing
   a sound
of slamming shut
the rolled aluminum rattle
the smell of wind , maple buds , and
days that have beginnings and ends

i can see the grass
back when green was still a
color
i can hear the creaking piston-hinge
and
the
reckless
slam

of all the futures being
shaved  down
to the
core

||