This House is Unfinished and It's Raining
a winter rain. Branches bare
beat a tabla’s timbre. Rhythm
and drag. We let one tree inside,
the rest go on reaching.
Tethered to starlight, another
name for fleeting. Morning coffee
makes my earthly body
makes a whim out of the horizon
makes the crackling cold snap back.
Darling, you’re a capitalist! You
color yourself in, mistaking clutter
for blankets. Saving past lives
from the drip. Drooping deep as the
gas station ornament purchased
outside of Paducah, Kentucky.
Someone asked you “aren’t questions beautiful?”
Twirling the spruce needle between
your skin, keeping your head still.