Correction!

Here is last week’s poem as it’s supposed to be:

Trespassing

Teens, the street, night nothing to do so they split
off in two’s, find an ark  like Noah’s, unfinished.

A wooden-frame, all two-by-fours and exposed pipe
dreams, she won’t go in but he takes her hand.

They wander, imagine walls, windows, become temporary
residents in a sketch of someone’s future disappointment.

A playhouse, rehearsal, with him as Man, her as
wife mother daughter, every living thing of all flesh.

Then on the plywood floor, it’s just a boy pounding a way
and a girl, her quiet cries turning stars into doves inside.

Lisa Mecham

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