O spew that slicks the trash can beside us!

You do not demean, you do not debase,

You ennoble the pig history,

and call up dead cats, 

and provoke my soul and throat alike.

—

O great herds of men!

Move on like cattle,

Rattle in your corners, trapped

behind signs and glass-cases

coats!  Take what you can!

Don’t slow the time- pus 

impeding to the balcony.

—-

Come Children!  From Stafford, from

Fredericksburg, from Virginia-

worthy of the North- and Pittsburgh-

just as equal to the South.

Fill my city, flush out its

stubborn geometry,

press against the corners and angles,

passing impenetrable limousines.

—

I know you have felt unworthy-

I know you have marveled at my materials,

Stared inside my bag,

(What where you looking for?

What would you have hoped to find?  Would I

have left something?  I spare nothing.  Not even

myself.)

—

Take my hair and complete the rest!

Take it!

The librarian sees far less than we.

And I know best what to watch.

Never mind overstepping me,

Never mind the route around the library,

Never mind punctuality,

Never mind the rain-

I fill all spaces.

I press against the sidewalks’ undersides.

                                                                                                                    –Courtney and Sam P

“Rise o Dancers from your Courtyard Plaza”

Rise o dancers from your courtyard plaza, till you stomping, snapping, spin,

Sidelong my eyes devoured what your practice gave me,

Long I roamed the streets of DC, long I watched the rain pouring,

I traveled Walt Whitman Way and slept in the seats of Ford’s Theatre, I crossed the streets, I jumped the puddles,

I descended to the secret tunnel and sail’d out to the Metro,

I sailed through the storm, I was soaked by the storm,

I watched with joy Chelsea threatening Sam

I mark’d the water lines where puddles splashed so high,

I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds,

Saw from afar what thrilled and moonwalked (O hilarious! O ridiculous as my heart, and

            corny!)

Heard the continuous beat as it bellowed over the car horns.

                                                                                                                    —Brendon and Sam K.

 

“O Wondrous Washington!”

O wondrous Washington!

City of rain and wind,

You drench us in amorous drops;

Our limbs move weary in recycled steps—

O wretched limbs!

Let us deliciously journey

And see your scribbled ink,

And feel the buzz of your presence,

And read the immortal words,

And rattle our frames with splendid, tattered images,

And depart limp and satiated.

O to find you and taste fully of your knowledge!

Wet lips, wet shoes, wet hair—

Wondrous, enriched fatigue.

                                                                                                                                  –Allison and Sarah

 

On Sunken Road I heard the calls of soldiers past—

O, Sergeant Richard Kirkland, you cradle one, my brother comrade, I could have sworn you were an angel watching me from your periphery, adoring.

It being the real, still-standing portion of the wall, I imagine the sons of the nation, and also the daughters, facing each other, their hearts join’d as joints of a wall by perforation;

Limbs erect as the rifles readied by their masters to unroot the Calamus,

I walk’d the gravel path with Kirkland, Lee, Whitman—fearless of intolerant rebels who might flank the figures of my mind:

White opposition approaches—a different union entire.

                                                                                                         —Meghan, Virginia, and Natalie

 

I sing the now-pav’d road which underneath my soles spanned the nubbed monument to the beds of delicate soldiers,

Where my callous hands soothed wounds from a war of brother against brother,

The road, infinite, wandering past Georgetown and the Potomac and the garbage eating pigs

And the mud and Andrew Jackson airing laundry and the doors of Saint John’s church  looking out onto the White Mansion and the canals, and the old warriors walking five stories for one month’s check, and the theatre where my brother, my comrade, fell and spoke no more

Oh road now pav’d over blood! Pav’d over me! I trod your streets once known in dirt

you conceal me, can I learn your roads once more?

                                                                                                                     —Chelsea and Ben