Some houses are a universe of breakable,
brightly colored glass. Others like to give off

an air of solidity: armchairs with massive backs,
table legs carved out of uncut pieces of wood.

The heavier, the better: none of that slap-it-together-
from-a-how-to-sheet nonsense. Like others, we've

filled ours with the collectibles of a lifetime—
mugs from every vacation, sweatshirts with school

logos; but also, stoneware plates and bowls, woven
blankets that smell of sleepy towns in the north.

Pictures of our living and our dead—how does anyone
find it easy to throw away a letter written in cursive,

though the paper has long yellowed? When the house
goes to sleep, we will also have gone to sleep.

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