Houses

are feelings. I saw one and you were in it.

    Then one Christmas we       walked to the always-drawing

river in big coats and that   collateral of deer bone & fur

    was a house. I think hit   by interstate and made it this

        far, then over time coyote and vulture, those feelings . . .

A house without a heart or eyes           an unanimated house.

          And all the winterkills     retreating snow reveals early houses were made of bone and skin   collected and lived within

Houses are what forests used to be and where.

And everything that lived in them lives on ripened. And in mine at three in the morning

the baby makes its cries     and going to fill up the bottle   become what in dark I bump into.