Strangers arrive with their old lovers in town
for the weekend. None of us
has ever had it so good. The shelves are full
of rubber fruit. Teeming, we say.
There's a television on. It's a tennis match.
Someone's whispering love
into a cell phone. The person on the other end
is asking
for pictures of this house
that was rejected
for being a surface house, a distant house.
"Look," Margo says, "I'm made of glass
and covered in glass." And the yard is full
of chickens' blood
and pianos on fire. And the chickens are full
of the blood of yards
as vans full of illegal workers pass
with pickups full of illegal workers
throwing each other into the ocean
many miles away
where we hear there are no oceans.
Many miles away, I'm holding the house
over the flower bed, so my desperation
can have an easier view
of another summer of birds
falling from the sky
onto this house that starts and stops. This house
that turns slowly above me in the breeze.
Why did I never realize
the house was so light, was this light?
Can this really be what all the fuss was about?
Just something with a little blood on it?
---John Gallaher
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