A poem called "Household."
We can leave this house to termites.
My body doesn't live here, or separate from yours.
I hear them munching in the dry adobe straw,
letting the elements in.
What valence in weathered rail beams, or did the tree cry out?
I can't reconcile the summer cloud of blank heat,
leaving me tilted back endlessly in a reclining chair.
With that angle of street clouds,
and low sun on that night of the first cold North Star.
Each angle, an energy between each blue perfect sky.
Here in my retreat, an autumn twilight, dark foil of the day,
an hour inside me.
My mind is the house, cold tile floors, a knotty pine ceiling
weighed upon by the ghosts of Fat Fuzzel and Mugs,
hair all over the walls, stucco cracks.
Please don't clean our love away.
Occupado.
You know me, I'm the man who travels a lot.
I was in a weird mood when I wrote that one.