Homes retreat to humans glued to their notions.
Through the highway of roots, they arrive like
shade, incubate human eggs that plead, stay
till we hatch from stillness. But we never do—
human windmills, in anticipation of wind/human
hills, in anticipation of snug hats/human wells,
in anticipation of light. Bat an eyelid, move a
finger, attempt a smile. Houses are surrogate
mothers with untold tales of quickening in her
baby bump. More room, you say / they grow
obese to hold you in their jowls. That a house
is wingless is a lie. It remains unrevealed to
us stillborn. That there isn’t a house of houses
is a lie. To calm their worrying faraway eyes,
houses exhale smoke through chimneys; At
the windowsill, emptied beer bottles with lip
prints of being. A house for everyone, like the
first love / an apparition / a desire. A house to
float your dead skin that blends in galactic
entropy. Inertia is the cover-up for inner leaps.
