The House
The house might have been white on the outside.
It's March: a skim of frozen mud and dirty snow,
and under it an ooze beginning like pure longing.
There are no tricks of perspective
on a flat, cleared space, except the earth
is imperceptibly curved. Like love,
the straight line is a visionary parody.
My eyes see clearly. I can feel my tongue
with its surface pebbled like basketballs.
The facade was all emeralds and light once.
Now, not unlike my own shoddy exterior,
it needs a good heart to give it strength,
feed its incapacities, and nourish it whole.