Inside
by A. A. Parr
for the stranger on the other side of the fence

Outside, your yard a pale waste
land of your father's, roses
your mother tended to instead
of her own thorn-laced
heart;

inside, a hand presses
against the pane, there
must be eyes, a face behind
the body, there must be a life

on the other side of this
sanguine summer.

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