Where Are You Tonight?

Grounds of day. Clouds like crushed napkins,
the stream of Manzanita autoplaying into endless June
Tabor, her voice like warm milk pressed through ancient
telephone wires, like these sketchy ones strung
through our oaks, purpleblack staff hatched just now
across the room, my calf, your thigh, her cuppable face
fine as a moth (the eclosion happening right before us)
as you search for the lamp switch like a porch key,
the old train comes high-balling by again, and her
like a swing in the rain, wings stored in imaginal discs—
she leaps from the light and into it. A house can sing.