From The Porch
Jason Jaksetic
The mouth is a birth but not an inception.
As is kicking stones before knowing
the road has turned to dirt. Mailbox rows
idling amongst ilex like habituations.
Places not places but still there anyway.
Chapters are rotting cottages, laundry
lines where words hang the calculus
of fingers not writing. Corrugated, metal
pieces of the shed blow about the lawn.