Invocation

Silent, about-to-be-parted-from house. Wood creaking, trying to sigh, impatient. Clicking of squirrel-teeth in the attic. Denuded beds, couches stripped of serapes. Deep snow shall block all entrances and oppress the roof and darken the windows.    O Lares, don’t leave. The house yawns like a bear. Guard its profound dreams for us, that it return to us when we return. November 1969