#tilden

Some homes are like this,
the haze of pining or brittle light,
movement in dew wind,
the oak woods readable to a girl
whose heart is wrought of eucalyptus;
it keeps eclipsing itself green and oil,
the stony plantar of a body forgotten
or what the eyes in the vase   
want to remember of the dawn,
construction of a hill house,
this sketch of bay, marble night stands,
elderly with small dogs, novels
rested in a glass chest, this haze
of empty love, then closure, travel,
then resin words tumbling
like fog, just when this plot  
is ruined by us, we construct a pond 
with timber water and the background
of the portrait starts with the conception
of leaning against something even if
for minutes just bark, orchid sphere of wall  
and honey, holy like these cotton moments
and others blooming, we keep what
will stand, hard pulses that come
and wane, the red moon sky, the sheen
nerve we are alone.