Holy House
I'm a holy house
swept clean by troubles
lent on and wooden
and freckled
The front door swings open
onto sightless grey ocean
and the light on will holler-
I'm home it's no bother
There's room, there's biscuits
there's tea
There's blankets there's bandaids
there's rest and there's soup
defrosting over the stove
It's no time to be shy to be
Jones-ing to find holes where
damp's set in,
You are are stocked, you are tender
You're dry
Open wide the curtains of the
modern depression
no space for it here to thrive
You're too holy too wooden
too lived in too oaken
to huddle- a red match un-flamed
I'm a holy house
swept clean by troubles
lent on and wooden
and freckled.