The crow and the boy
drinking from your garden hose
turn together toward you.
You shoo them away.
Summer leans on the line lawn.
Your perfect walls
look like the bleached beach
where the first of the slaves
landed. The murmur
still sprinkles all over the grass.
From the wet dirt wake up
some plants that bloom
in the shapes of hungry hands
and open palms.
LatinosUSA 
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