© 1996 Dave Awl
This house is matchsticks and mud
and I don't care. I move through it eyeless
and numb, tripping over rabbits and
pothos vine, while a tornado of spiders
and eggshell moves from room to room
collecting evidence, dusting for
prints. The child runs in, slamming
the screen door, raising a ruckus
as always: asking me if I've seen
the fluorescent explosion of sky outside.
I have of course. But I prefer to stay
inside. I've already been a child once
and I didn't like it; besides,
they stole my bicycle long ago,
and sold it to the worm who now
sleeps beside me,
alone in his cave of teeth.
If it weren't for the coming summer,
I'd never want for anything:
never look out of windows,
never picture the bed galloping
away with me in it,
across fields of golden clover
with a crown of bees to protect me,
healed and shriven and free
in the forgetting light of spring.