in this little house the dirt floor
stays warm, the fire does not go out, its light
our own branding of misery: in this house
where blindness is our bravery,
we keep time with open palms on the body
of the guitar, bare feet and old frets.
in this little house we corral
unruly love, the wild flight of our egos and
our so-mutual discontent, for
what pleasure comes at nighttime:
I will dance, and you will play, and we'll spend
the dark hours grating, wet, against
each other. can I breathe that deep ocean, drown
in this moonlight? in this firelight, where
hell is real, can I melt with fury, can I burn?
in this little house I sweat for the
grind of erosion, worn from angry tides,
cast me as coarse as salt with your cold kiss.
you move through me, douse me, embalm me:
you and my blood, grit in the flow.
I crave nothing, create nothing, quiet and leaving
only this little house of tinder behind.