Nothing of that old house was square.
Shut doors were framed with triangles of air.
A marble rolled the length of notched pine floors.
Flaws were the reason it could be ours.
And what is thunder, and what makes stories end?
Answers that we could like gods invent.
We slept as a Venn diagram below the drumming rain.
The soil outside was ashes stashed with bottles and one foreign coin.
Aligned on the sill—brown, amber, jade—played by the sudden sun like a scale.
We said different things: the sound of clouds colliding, the sound of when empty space fills.
