— Geoff Anderson

21st & Locust, colonial canyons
keep mum as I remember how to

parallel park. Windows strung,
white bulbs gloss masoned lips—

a chisel labored here, then two
centuries of rain. My gloves trace

brownstone edge; my cheeks
curve with calcium, my veins lurk

beneath the crust. I see myself
more clearly in the earth than

a rearview mirror. In a fresh
pothole, asphalt gives way to

brick. Somehow, each cell of clay
can be mapped, from where

I come to where I stand today. In
my hand, an ancestry chart rattles

off the farthest continents—
not one of whose faces I have

touched. But I have seen them
sharpen my widow’s peak, stamp

crow’s feet under each narrow
temple. For once, I can point to

where I belong. A gap in the
curtain, a pine plugged in, a bell

chirps behind the opaque door;
the shadows I know grow loudest

the moment they disappear.

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