He and she lived a simple life of years
in a house with shuttered windows
and a garden of roses by the back door.
But she was I and he was you and years were only
things that didn’t happen and things that did.
And the house was a palace and a prison
and an empty box, and it was all so complicated.
The windows were weary eyes that always
watched, and the door, the door was the keeper,
the releaser, the rectangle of know; behind there,
questions were born. And yellow roses grew out back,
but so did thorns, and we never knew which we would
collect. Strings of together pulling, binds of tight,
and then invisible hands to reach down
and sweep away our tangled life.
Talking to the Clouds 