title owed to Jon Anderson

Think of here first then out of doors and the light
that comes through the window as it rises first over the hedge
and further, to streak the floor.
                                                Then take the steps.
                        As is their way, being kind
and discreet, dishes in their sleep always wash another first.

How when the pattern repeats there is so little to say, things like
excuse me or is that your lantern that whisks away the night so?

There are knots in the wall where plaster cracked over time.
The plants in the living room have grown so long and high
that their planters crumble.
                                                They don’t like to grasp.
                        Their roots spread like fire
across the carpet and dust everything they touch.

Sometimes in hard weather the toilets begin to laugh,
this is nothing unusual. We sit down on their faces.

It is such a farmer’s world then, measured in creaks, in distributed weight.
Once an aunt cracked eggs over a lit burner with no pan there to catch them.

Her son at night would curl onto his knees
like a praying mantis and speak in a language
similar to Mandarin.
                        I have seen this happen.
I had an uncle who was fond of sandwiches.

Once I told my mother that this not sleeping had to stop
after stumbling around the living room. I lay down
on the leather couch
                        next to the old bearskin,
then swallowed a lot of air.

In the morning I was moored to its creases.