The house creates rain:

isn’t that the only explanation possible

for all the times someone wept, thereby
setting off a cascade of weeping? We rowed

from room to room, each in our own
teetering gondola, burnished

but breakable as glass. This is the way
the self becomes tired of weaving

bridge after bridge of sighs.
It wants to climb onto a dock

and slip into a crowd of revelers—
they’ll bear her away, dizzy

and uncertain, stumbling
into the plaza’s yellow light;

and all those wings,
reeling overhead.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Pear tree house.

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