Some go farther. The house beneath its sheath of roiled light shimmers, a kind of bride. Under the film of heat the facade is a kind of cover, coaxing and dissembling. The rooms we want to enter disappear, the way to them a turning vine, impossible to climb, but flowering up and down, blistering. Innocent hands strike matches.
Fevers fly out, furies fly out from the place of gestation, of origin.
Like the white silk-satin of Taste not of the tree, which is a furled bud in the wood that framed the house, a locked thing longing for a key. I didn't have to grow into this longing, or work too hard to glow among the sinking and resurrecting shadows underneath the rocking flowerbaskets on the chapel porch. All night, while you kept my ruched avalanche hitched up almost over my head, a black dog five hands high prowled outside. Pilferer, rifler, filcher. The surface of the pond we leaned across shone like a bottle pulled from a fire, burled with oil-swirls, buckled.