The insomnia house
with its working-class planks,
now bequeathed
to a family from Queens,
while my fat candles burn
in Victorian spires
filled with Indian drums
and bookshelves of poems.
This facade that seems so frivolous
is the shell of my protection
for my own most peculiar religion
(the only kind that matters,
the one that accepts all others
(because it is so crazy
and so true to me)).
The birds and the squirrels
who were calling me away
are now looking in through my windows.
The town with the last reputation to uphold
wakes up in the glow of spring's promising
and I sleep
right through it.
