in this house

in this house    sleep

is restless

            another chore

to add to the list

                        we wake

sore on the rocks

of our mountainous

dreams

            cramped by

damp weather

and shearing winds

                        we wake

as if dropped

into a thicket of scalding

wild rose

            the uncommon

world in its orange dawn

and open mouth pulls us

to our feet

            back to our bodies

back again to the lists

inscribed in the metal

and brick

of our belongings.