Note From a House, Handwritten

                              Stand not fast within me.

                              Plump your feather pillows

                              in only less than years.

                              Enter and leave before

                              I do—like breathing,

                              like bathing in deep grass,

                              like finding hidden coins

                              on forgotten shelves. Hang

                              no particular clouds,

                              no pencil sketches of birds,

                              no ivy vines or printed laundry

                              like that. Be still in repose

                              wherever you must.

                              Place heirloom furniture at the center

                              of your hardwood dreams.

                              Remember them once

                              at the proper time.

                              Pull back the curtains

                              to bring summer in,

                              deep summer like an iron vat

                              with brine pickles in progress

                              on the shaded porch.

                              Do not loiter for reasons,

                              but rather only for none.

                              Postpone the kitchen

                              drawn in pale yellow,

                              in subtlety, in grain form

                              for another day. Follow

                              the dog. She will tell you why.