By Ellen Donnelly
The Capitol between falsettos is cherished as a city white with rules. She will
meet us there, on Constitution Avenue, on either side, a field. To task a
blossom is to request the best of season from a tree. It bears in its shade the
strays of protest: dead-letters, cornered over August, 1963.
If we return again to passionate, to center, we extract the cyst of policy. She
will meet us then in Lincoln Park to watch the monument implied in form. Out
there within the domes and columns weeps the rash, the dermatitis in the heat
of poverty. We should drive Rock Creek and walk down Euclid. We should ride
to Woodley. After one emerges from within its system, the Metro seems so
blue. We should meet her at the diner. We should find her there.