I keep thinking about a white
house in a garden
with drooping dahlias
lining the crooked
stone path

a stone path that leads to
an awning- spilling shadows from its
canopy
down to cover
a degrading wooden
step

I keep thinking about the door
single panel window and
unwashed, dusty curtains,
lace, sunlight bursting through
the
window fogged with
grime and age

I keep thinking of places
that do not exist
and are puzzles of
things I have
seen
before

where even the bees are lazily buzzing symphonies and
the tallest trees I've ever seen sway in their drunken lull,
it's August in southern Oregon and
I keep thinking about a
white house in
a garden