How is it possible to wake this empty
and brew chamomile, watching the water
paint itself yellow and the little flowers
float and bob—

The cars swishing past in dark rain
are going somewhere.
This is my favorite story.
The man with a secret jungle growing
in his brain says chocolate
can make him happy.
I would find a bar
heavy as a brick. With almonds.
And lean forward whispering of
the house in the heart,
the one with penny-size rooms,
moth-wings ceilings, cat-lip doors.

This body we thought so important,
it’s a porch, that’s all.
I know this, but I don’t know
what to do about it.

How it is possible to move
through your own kitchen
touching a bamboo strainer curiously.
Whose is this? And know it is
the one you use every tea,
to feel like an envelope
traveling in and out of the world
carrying messages
and yet not remember
a single one of them—

Today I look out the glass
for some confirmation.
Lights will stay on late this morning.
Palm fronds were frozen last week,
there is rain in the street.
And the house in the heart cries
no one home, no one home.