A tri-fold screen creates rooms, divides the air.
You are hidden. I cannot breathe. Your memory provides the air.
Too wet to rake. Leaves clog the drains. Before the rain
stopped, the creeks and rivers surged. Detritus is everywhere.
A house is not, by default, dark, abandoned, or quiet,
but privacy can silence its stories, and the house will hide its flares.
In November, Hercules bends a knee to the western horizon.
In the sky he faces the dragon. Is any fight fair?
Where is the logic of God, nature—when the boy shoots
a hole in the floor, then the window, then . . . after he neatly sets his shoes by his chair?
In dreams we speak: one of us in a tree, both of us hungry.
One: Come back. One: Fill me. Sleep collides with prayer.
Uprooted, the garden rosemary traveled by pot in a car.
Remember how the backseat smelled—the scent still rides in our hair.
A little house on a hill weeps into the incline,
Renews the world with its heaving, guides us through despair.