New Directions 2007
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In the house the house is all
house and each of its authors
passing from room to room
Short eclogues as one might
say on tiptoe do not infringe
I want my own house I'm
you and you're the author
You're not all right you're
all otherwise it appears as
if you don't care who you
are — if you count the host
Don't worry I go with the
house your living's where
you walk or have walked
I'd rather read than hurt a
hair of you listen to me
Premeditated twilight this
house a nearest wrapped
bundle of belonging idle
slip back through grasses
dabble our bare feet in
Poets have imagined you
whoever you are implicit
melody familiar metaphor
bawdy tapestries archaic
pillage love patience the
scales the dogs the boots
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( a selection from
"118 Westerly Terrace")
