A Woman Like a Corner House

opens herself to all
directions. Where street signs
tangle, she searches her name.
She owns no secrets, her backyard
a public stage. Gowns on the
clothesline. Garbage, metal
lips of cans clinking.

Late night men in passing
cars leave trails of empty
bottles. To children she is
a shortcut, a way to get
to there. They wear
her grasses low. She is the elbow
leaning on itself, dreaming
a place with no curves or
turns, where corners untie,
slip from their knots, unwinding
to pure straight line.