On North Alabama Street,
Bruised bricks enclose lives
Restored from enmity.
Two sets of double doors separate woman and child
From remorseful husbands, insistent fathers,
Men who perhaps stay
Right next door at the men’s shelter.
Or toxic pastimes, which shrivel
In barren rooms under cream blankets,
And there are the few,
The beautiful few,
Who at this humble refuge
Find rest for weary minds which don’t confuse
But diffuse time among theory and
Colors that have no name
Yet sound like rain.
Seeking salvation after faith fell
Through the holes of a lattice world,
They find a chance to start anew,
And strength sustained as
The cessation of a burdening refrain.
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