page 77

The house

The house faces south
and we are couched in the dark side of a hill.
The grass is long and always wet.
We envy the hill opposite: we long for its sun.
There are holes in it, tunnels,
like a pencil had been poked through.
The two pines are always black as pitch.
A guitar in the corner keeps creaking.
At night the little train all lit up inside
rattles briefly round the hill,
in and out of the tunnels.