How a house is a self
& else, a seeping into
of light deciding the day.
A house so close
it breathes as the lake
breathes. How a lake
is a shelf, an eye,
a species of seeing,
burbling of tongues
completing the shore.
How a loon is a probing,
a genus of dreams,
encyclopedia of summer.
Unsummable house
by the lake, generous hinge
opening us. I loved,
in folds of sleep, to hear
the back door’s yawn
& click. You gliding
down toward shore
& dawn, beyond all frames,
reconciling yourself to
bracing Long Lake.
Into its ever-opening, you—
Copyright © 2018 Philip Metres. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Tin House, Summer 2018.