B + E

Three nights after two white males seventeen to twenty,

approximately as tall as my imagination can grow them,

threw a rock through the sliding glass door that mutated

it into a pile of icicles, the shattered termite mound of quartz

has already been replaced by just another new sliding glass door,

and I almost wish that the jagged mouth was still open,

that the too-large piece of plywood could still loom

on my behalf, crude, coffinish, but motherfucker try

to throw a rock through that, just try to violate my living

room again, now smelling oddly like a pine forest.