I do not know
but dawn
favours a grey house across the street from me,
painting it bright serene
aka
lighter salmon-coral
that fades toward pink-conch.
Why is my abode of lesser resort
and why, out walking—
a thing of rasp
and enough scarce breath
as might
impugn a horse—
I never can come into
its full,
incontrovertible presence?
Nor can I slow
to remark upon sash windows
where I am almost sure
to peep the allure
of some greater pariah/
non-pariah of existence
gazing inwardly/rudely out at me
(also what allusion
to the blind spree of curtains?)
till I have long since passed
enchanted realty of the house—
Who’s to determine
I have not already overstepped
all my proxy/poxy diligence,
hard-pressed
by my own rather-daring
up close—
unbearably close?
Up ahead, the road boasts tons of tramped
dreams and bold, heading-outward silence—
the tamped outpost
of so much hope and dread and grief.
Morning sun sweats my eye
to the tune
of a bright and burning, blurring confluence of rivers.
Tomorrow owns/hones
house and hedge and a single poking upward
wayside bloom,
revising heck of the hill,
earned breath and—
the push….