House With Windows

The inevitable texture:
My daughter’s hand
in my palm soothing

the various rooms
in our bodies. How flesh
folds, freckles like paint

on a Lucian Freud—
a feast as her sighs ignite,
vault our ceilings.

Each night she nurses dusk
from sky—corridors burn
with delicious light.

Early, the sun throws down
its slick aegis and we grow weedy,
soft sprockets in our hair lifting

to seed. What house within
my house—what soul, bright
and fluted, travels the veins’

dangerous hallways? Too soon
to think of parting, we grow
tufted with pink flesh—

immense, minute again—
spiraled in skin’s time—
our ribbed and only cavern.