TERRI WITEK

Walking Houseproud

Walking houseproud in that city
I choose domiciles for different tasks:

in the yellow house I’ll give birth,
the green one unhinges like a book,

rooms over a liquor store promise sex.  
But nothing whispers “Hurry in”—

only taxi stands seem welcoming.
So I touch my way,

transferring a ghostly less-and-less
until the whole city becomes a house

and I one more floorboard in it,
pale and knotted, with a stubborn squeak.  

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