Dreams and Houses

Our houses dream, too.
Sometimes our dreams cross
with theirs.

I’m around the corner: the house
of a girl I’ve crushed on since I saw her
one day on the bus. She’s smart
and warm and this
is everything. Somehow
I’m older, too, and we’re sneaking
into the middle of the lawn
to roll our bones together.

She touches my pants; now
they’re part of her hands.
She wrings them and blue
flies over the grass.
She looks down and smiles,
surveys the street.

Why are you stopping?
I thought this was… we…

There’s a man
on your roof.

What?

There’s a strange man
on your roof.

Seriously?

My dad’s boxy olive Volvo is sterling
in the driveway. There’s no sign
of anyone on the roof. I turn
back toward the street
when I notice there’s a room
where there shouldn’t be.

It’s a lot of rooms, really;
one becoming
others.

It’s wild.

When I put my hand
to the wall, it feels like dirt
and sandstone and wood and flesh
and metal at once.

Sometimes
a door appears, and sometimes
it’s open.

I stand directly in front
and wait.

Finally, it comes again and I start to run in
when two guys almost knock
me over running out
and screaming,

FIRE!

In the morning,
I knock on my brother’s door
until he wakes up.

Added: January 6, 2013 | Last changed: January 23, 2015