Here’s our kingdom bordered by four walls, screen
doors, framed windows: open a random drawer to count
a wealth of mismatched spoons, tins half-filled with
tea, chipped porcelain. In every room, small machines
that need to be started and stopped, fed clothes or food,
water, dirt. Through the south-facing window, some mornings,
a gathering of crows in drab coats— Unlike them, we
do not fly away. We stay and press our forms into
the furniture; we pour the milk into the glass
and set the clocks. We say each other’s names.