Listen!
MY HOUSE, A POEM You are listening when I say that the great thing about a poem about my house is how it will not go to the house but goes about its way elsewards. Evening, gravel, exhalations, acorn, toad- stool, opportunities, roundabout, fire, teeth, primrose, tower, crossroad, and rest stop. Lost dogs in their wandering leave footprints mistaken for each other. My poor little doggy set- tles at the foot of her tree, with her mind on water. On one occasion after another, a penny is dropped by one hand and picked up by another, by the cemetery gate or in the street. The wind like a hand ruffles your hair, I hope for it to settle, but there is little to wait for but the next rain. Good will, frightened horses, foggy mornings, and burning branches. We've gone too far, try to smell your way back. The poem has gone around to the other side of itself and turned back, but its steps can't be retraced. Too far. And off in the distance, small as a nut, but impossible to approach: my house.