I smell oil on a stovetop and damp, dishwater hands
A liquor-breath yawn and mold in the window pane
I smell last night's lightning rain and a street of Baptist children
I hear a screen door, flat tire yell and humming bugs
The TV is noise behind big wind and big hands
Sun paints the yard up nice in water color
Streams warming the mud and trunks, and stale milk puddles
Sheets hold my shoulders in the kitchen,
And my legs feel in love and pale as the palm of my hand
At home, south of the Marseilles River
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