This house is older than the lilac trusses glistening
in winter ice,
older than the pack of Winstons on the wire chair,
older than the chair as well as this glass of water
holding water. Is it older?
The house lurks under the sky, which has stood over it.
A time when this patch was a field, deer maybe shat in it,
grazed a few leaves from a sprig, now fallen.<
The house is covered in fresh snowfall, lovely
in reflected mercury light,
its weary glow damaging to the cardinal flirting
of a stalled ornamental maple. Where is my head
in this data? All this
indexical nomenclature. It’s not reassuring to know
the names tonight, lousy and grigri and non.
Just words to fill space older than a house, a bird,
this glass and my hand.