our hallway is stained with peace 

the front door holds in the house

framing glass carved with reckoning 

a prism of What the Living Do*

pinning down the wasp who later flies 

beyond the stillness of a dormant tree 

shadowing deer bones plucked clean

flimsy strands of harp frozen in dirge  

bowing reminder of violence

urban stories tongue the roof of our mouth

bruising 

science of running through the woods

soft and fading green 

following blue-black silence

*Marie Howe’s book of poems, What the Living Do