Girl with the single braid falling down her back,
boy with the limp or a stone in his shoe—

Old man dressed in his only white suit
walking up the road with his cane—

In those days one could buy
bread at dawn from the corner store,

little yeasty fistfuls to carry
like hot stones in each hand, careful

to avoid the dogs that snarled
and pulled at their chains

in unkempt yards— And on Mount
Santo Tomas, the twin cupped discs

of radars that marked the edge of a world
beyond which it did not seem possible

to venture: only the hawks could view
the sea from that height, or the sun

as it slipped from our grasp,
disappearing the end of each day.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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