A House Built Into Trees - Poem by Taylor Graham
Evenings we open windows to let the jazz out,
whistling like stars, while the moon on its low arc
draws the outline of this very night.
And we'll be going, between the rough
red fringe of sunset and the dawn's pale rind,
the bed floating from its loft, casting off ballast.
The oak boughs lift us lighter than the air we move through
dark as bats, singing our thin sonar to come,
asleep, back home.
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