One can not have two souls
and stay at the window dark.
Orange windows at morning,
pink at dusk.
Summer, the scrubbed kitchen,
already the garden gate humming,
And that's when the white horse
returns. Only years later
when the white horse returns
do I remember the Summer story
now that the white horse comes
again, my house a can't help,
where sleep darks the banister.
The creaking of the house
asks me to listen, my scrub rag
hung on its peg, pail of water
pumped at the cistern back porch,
ill of spirit, twins of the floor
cleaned, the spirit shaken hold,
not expected, but whose presence
the can't help honors, the pieces
of the heart a havoc still.
Lain down on the floor together
after the pumping at the cistern
when the dusk's west dissolves,
where, when it was said, "Oh, look!"
her soul crashes into the house
and the other hurries to wrap her arms
around the thing that is so long coming
between them. Kitchen, the long night speaks,
the wrought iron gate tweaking
at the edge, setting fire,
having the last work, dying down,
even the wind wicked out.