The House on the Hill

My life on paper is rakish,
tight as a papoose—
rolling like beads across the page,
fractals from seed to weed—it runs wild.

I have known the moon and her shadows,
felt the love that has dried
on her soft white hands,
scabbing them over, pocking them.

I have built myself a house—
it is enormous and unfinished, it is the deer,
it is the oak tree, it is the sea—
I will sit in the kitchen

and make a pot of tea.