they come out of the houses of the project already
forgetting the doors they have just
opened looking upward at the boy who jumps
out of the trees and do not even know they are
beginning to run the stomachs of the men riding
ups and down under their t-shirts the women’s
breasts jogging they are running beyond
the sad gray porches faster than the cars
up on blocks and the father has forgotten
his voice which is swearing the same word and the mother far
out in front is lifting her arms above her head again
and again as if she were flying
-Wesley McNair