Shorelines
I walk home
all the herring coming out
with a grace as great as the night
after the work
of the house is done
this sudden grief
Poems on the topic: house
Poems on the topic “house” on Poets.by.
Multiplication
up early
like water
being myself only
(a mathematics
that I cannot understand)
being the rain coming into my house
being open
Hole
a hard turn in
the garden
of love
making a hole
to look into
and the dirt
when my house is
pulled down
the night I see
Timekeeper
Time gone, I fell upon
boring holes in the clock
and calling it chance,
keeping a month or two with me
like water in a boat, black
with every particular of home.
I observed the fanatics
who cry up death say
they will not pay for time,
like a road when we have
no money for ordinary dirt.
Building my house
a story higher, saving light,
I long to see time heal.
Dust
this great dust is made
in the country
there is no cheaper
to fill up the house and urn
with I know not yet
what sleep
Invoice
Four o’clock
and I even accounts
with myself. Our heads roll
like ice on the shore
or the poor in
their warren. Where
is the house I forgot?
I light a room
to scare away sleep.
Fable
I am he who had
been hunting and
is come back dead
to all I own,
to my house made
of children and gold,
to my picture
which is now
done with me.
Nothing day
[Nothing
going to dinner to hear news to his house to my house to the coffee house
going on.]
Country Living
sitting in a cold house
staring at my empty wood stove
thinking it’s my fault
that she went cold
and with the lights out it’s brighter
outside than in
the snow reflecting the clouds
reflecting the lights from town
a house is a strange husk
home to so many others
like the 18 white-footed mice
I’ve slaughtered this winter
or my dreams which I no longer recall
but which I presume to exist
like the giant rat snake whose skin
I found in the ceiling
The Hollow (18)
ghostly dock leaves
pressed against the window
old chicken house
gone but for their grins
our childhood collection
of mummified rats
once my best
climbing teacher
broken-limbed maple
stone wall
all the times
I’ve rebuilt it
Green house
A rank yard
and part green in my parlor
where I am out
of land and pleased
to house the dirt.
Opening
The footprint of the collapsed house
seems hardly big enough
for a closet,
let alone three floors
of moldering furniture
and typewriters full of dead beetles.
Up in the woods, a beech tree
has filled the opening beside it
with outstretched limbs.
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