Karen Kevorkian: IT WAS SHE THINKS IN BLACK AND WHITE

September cooling, arguably
an understated beginning, leaves 
crisped in flight, this must be 
the house, how the sun 
rampages through the trees,
the little yard a meadow 
where unquietly once 
a snake, shapeshifting

confusion, a door incised 
with the past, swagger 
of voices then the move to other
small rooms, another small house

of dubious quiet, filaments 
of tree shadow 
that craze makeshift 
walls, penscripted light


from Literary Pool, 2014