From the Fishouse

It is finding love and then figuring the plan,
where wall meets wall, or window
or a door to somewhere else. Nails
shot to timbers, arrows into hearts. Paint
the grey sheetrock some color that births joy.
A shade of sky that evokes passion in rest.
Conceal the wood, the innards of the house
that hold it. Curtain the windows,
less the world see inside. Dishes placed so
on the table with its orange and green tablecloth.
Two cups, one saucer. One napkin. A paper
folded, the memory of a cigarette smoldering
what there is between. Time and storm
and time. Stones cast. Fall.