Words chunk, slab and slide syllabic sideways
down, down, down the rusted iron pipe clattering,
winnowing, peeling into tiny pinioned dreams.
The rutted drift-way thrills to the tune of
crabwise whirling, rivulet-ripping dust-devils
that careen and squish-slosh alluvial
seeding this alley where no one ever walks.
These labyrinths ring: ding dong, dong ding
with a concrete clap-slapping reverb
between buildings. Children who ran/run
still in dreams, the courtyard square-bottom
cup from rim to weedy-rim, tag, "you're it"...
The black sing-song, see/saw iron gate is home
or almost... Fly the clapper recalling what no one
ever saw on the stone stoop rising steeply to the door
or what the wide street and sidewalk recanted,
because no one wanted to know. And yet here we are...
here, we are, hear we are...
Lucy Meskill
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