Your house looks like it’s crying.

Red-sunset windows translate centuries of pain.

No matter how white you tried to paint those walls
your discontent and hyperactive sexuality cover it
with an indescribable yellow tarnish.


Your house looks like unbraced teeth
that smoke two packs of Camel Turkish Silvers a day.

Sharp.

The wishes of your windows
with lights from inside shining through them
scream out in the darkness

As I’m driving I wish you would let me stop by.
But I’m getting better
at learning how not to