The next poem is called My House
The east walls are white and ice cube.
Something inside melting it.
The full moon maybe drifting South over the air base.
I can feel it on my skin.
All around me the neighbors lights are out.
There in the white spaces between the salt cedars,
to see yourself, the wind and the hair like clusters,
needles, like lungs opening and closing.
This door, I have to lean all my weight against it.
If I really wanted to, nights like this I
could walk out, leaving my body behind like a birdhouse
the rains of rotted until it has fallen in on itself.
The wood around the nails rusty.
A few sunflower seeds in case somebody's
hungry in the morning.