• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 06

This House

When you close your eyes at night,
you can go to this home,
all the children coming at you
out of the trees.
What goes on
in the mind
will never shame you.
means not thinking
of this house that lives on fresh air,
even when the natural order is upended
and your eyes,
not wishing to,
open                  wide.

You can barely contain the world
though you have a bowl underneath
to catch the cascading,
                  like Keats’ books
                            from the rack of his bed.
You breathe
through each room,
somewhere between two moments
and a whole night,
while a leaf falls,
the earth fearfully quakes.