Finally, the house is not the house.
The house drifts
under the memory
of the house.
We came here with blue
pencils, green ink
and drew the maps
of our histories
behind the TV, the refrigerator,
on the bathroom ceiling,
between the panes of the windows.
Given enough time
every house is a masterpiece.
Dreaming we remember our houses
as they were. We retain them long
after another family has erased
our illegible notation
for the gods.