But we are a house
foundered on a hillside
bottomed in a creek & crowned
by century redwoods. We are walled
w/ eyes recording weather,
dawn, Anna's hummingbirds & silver
fungi, fox & coyote, tomato-
gobbling fawn w/ parent
(parent another kind of house).
We don’t recall the hares &
Germán’s dogs in fruitless chase,
a hundred parrots grazing
out the north window of that red-roof
pale green house, vacant now
& likely wind burned, dust bunnied,
the dying willow once hung
w/ parrots a ghost beside
a second-story stained-glass eye
incandescent w/ desire to gain
someone new’s affection.
But
here
in what you call present time we are
a blue-roof pale brown, say it —
beige
call it bone house. Is it so unlikely
you can learn to love us?
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