A woman, with a cap, the nape of her neck, brittle like old drift wood,, it clings like a rope, as if in full swing, as all will be broken, shoved up into the eaves, where the fires, move and crack, and the small combustibles wait their tutn,, crouched together watching for the black man the one finally climbing the stairs, as the first step creeks, waiting for him to kick down the door. as with each new remembering, the embers burn. Thing that happened, things we forget, incidences he inhabited. Us Staring at he white square, as he tries to get in. MB
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