in other houses

i wake. The Buddha’s upturned hands
are a caesura. Trickle, little pauses.
Beaks and wings, wings and beaks,
the langour of swans
china horses stymied mid-prance.   i make toast.
Silver frames a couple, dazzling,
not us.
i make toast in someone’s kitchen.
Gold statuettes: musicians slack mid-lyre.
Malad creek sluggish
with the deceased.
A bevy of odors come to roost
on the sofa, dank velvet ooze.     i make lunch.
Our child is a whole of arms and legs,
Liquids flying through air.
She is the one real.
We place her exactly onto newspaper.
We pat her into form
so she won’t stain the chair while eating.
My horoscope is epicene:
it says nothing of a visa.
A pigeon shuffles across the railing, stumbles
i call for food, drink,
the blessings of a waiting room.
The day is a box on the calendar.
The night is metallic on the pillow.     i perplex
stars on the ceiling. The night is buildings
spreading to the hills. Tiny dots like Morse code.

This poem was first published in Issue 17 of Breakwater Review