The Porch

We play on the porch

our island
washed clean
by gentle air
and splattered rain

Rails hold off
the endless space
The porch receives
our footsteps
our brief moment

The porch stands still
long empty days
slowly cooling nights
passing cars
furtive raccoons
remembered
in raised nail heads
and lifting flakes of paint




This poem is included in my upcoming collection, "Circling Venice."