Robert Ostrom
Confessions of a Forest Fire
Once again someone has disquieted the country dogs.

I woke this morning, precocious, full of edges.

I woke and found a deer inside my bedroom.

A dirt road lined with pulsating horses.

(A small house is the metaphor for anything)

And the woods? A small house of clamoring hours.

Woman, small house feeding its will,

Let's go back to my room.

I am heady with chestnut leaves and I am tired of talking.

You have given birth to so many ghosts.

When I leave, imagine a house empty

But for one broken chair, an injured swan.

When I am gone you will be unrecognizable

In the opulence sparse. After me, dear, sleep.