in echoes. And they walk down a corridor lined with portraits. Hung
inwardly on the walls. Stale messages

from adolescent bullies pull
at the corners of my mouth, clouds dump rain from the blue sky

of my eyes. I hear vice whispered in this escape to a forgotten stone
impasse with portico leanings. The men detach

themselves from those walls to march
through their namesake colonnade. Frames begin to rattle with the motion

of female portraits turning toward me. Face after face to remind me I can touch mine. It is still here
along with life-affirming sadness to strengthen my limbs and salted resolve.