Hawthorne

Evening already lowering itself behind the cross-hatched boards of the fence, camelias stippling the pebbled yard—bright clumps of pink pressed between piles of dog shit—& the voices of our neighbors who alternate fighting & fucking carry: my own pendulum swings: gratitude/envy—I aim for part-time happiness—the sun’s slippage—no one on this street gets it all to themselves—my slice of it slanting through slats in a fence I am not responsible for erecting. My choice comes down to whether to leave parted the curtains, the window jutting open to deep evening sounds of dog bark & mellow: someone’s getting some- one...

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