This neighborhood is all I know,
these placid lawns and cars consumed
by blooms of rust where things move
underneath the surface
—parts and widens, comes a tuft
of hair a head or pair of hands
and then erupts with screaming children,
all together eyes alive and loose-limbed
flinging spears at one another
—dodging homemade dogs
who single-minded in the backyard
gnaw an arc of bones
with muzzles dripping—
Matthew Chamberlin lives in Virginia, where he also writes.
