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