At the end of this corridor is the back porch with a view. A view with oceans.

The best on the Pacific. No need to sail in Nike to see the land continue. 12 hours away. The land promises to go on,

off grid. Here to wake is to dream, like to dream is to stay alive.

The day closes the night like the night closes petals. Like secrets clasped between a baby’s fists, blinds that shut entire worlds.

When I close them I see mother in a pink Taichi robe in the first light, outside.

To the left is the bedroom. On my bed at 17, I reprint the stories of a bigger body,

hoping it remembers me. And opposite that–like past glories become nicely draped pedestals, a purple velvet drapes over my Steinway.

The living room roars with beliefs I hunted of
some Northmen and Chinese princess. Carousing without scaring my newphews.

They don’t watch me like Liberty watches over America – with her back to it

Tell me if you see this house. My catacombs are ready. For an address yet to be in the books. Zip code capital ZERO.

If it goes on sale at doomsday, or Mid-Autumn. If a dead-end bleeds into another. If it lives only in a blueprint

Let me know. I’ll bring the tomb the