nights when fallen peaches
sweeten the wind-rush through eucalyptus
stars churn in ragged grass and rise
again into the blown sky. barefoot,
much seems hopeful in the dark.

we carry our stains, our unmended clothes
to lives that change shape around us;
the entry is inexact and fades as wind does
down to absent. that deafness

which sludges along inside the walls
records all, leans its forehead against the studs
and sucks its dull teeth. the new people
for all their scrub and luck, wake and find

the sugar's been licked, shatter and shard
wait in window glass as well as ice. cellared
history straightens up from a cot,
its hand to the small of its back.  

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l.a.seidensticker works and writes in northern california, where she was born and has, with few exceptions, remained. she has been sparsely published.  

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