It is no dream to live in a house
with blown out windows and molting snakes.
Any child’s drawing would tell you so:
the driveway, the garden, the smoking chimney.
I sleep with a pistol between my legs so often
that any man would be a soft nuisance.
This quiet is the quiet of watching a living thing
die, when you hit yourself for having believed the heart
could ever resemble a red bird.
I would give up all of my memories of trains
if one passed through the foothills as I watched.
All to say, there is enough emptiness to be buried
wherever the weathervane stops.
There is enough emptiness to feel holy.
At night, the wind upsets the shutters, the shingles.
And although I knew a bucket of morphine
and a glass of scotch would kill it,
I killed it.