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.