In the Castro
Banner of colors, slung like a war flag,
district defined by what’s not there, by whom,

where long before dawn
a man would knock

on each door to ask for a place
to place his faith in for the night—

Brothers, we were men dreaming
of greener, wetter pastures.

But I have come too late. Cast-offs,
kissed by more than salt, I miss

the memory of you, of a haven I never knew
that buttressed these streets.
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