Houses fly. Houses won�t sit still.
The whole world is musical chairs.
He is me and me is he and you�
All the personal pronouns are a blur.

Sometimes you have to step out
of your body to get a better look
at yourself. Hang onto the roof.
Shed all you�ve ever known:
photographs, old frames, even
your best-fitting clothes
to see if there�s a better fit.

Lose it all in the altitude of cotton candy.
Rise higher and higher in the birdsong
of new discovery. A floating pedestal.
An attentive pauper. Holding out his
tiny brushes for a chance to shine
your floating toenails. Goddamn!

But who wouldn�t want to escape
the pain in the kitchen and
all that frantic pumping grief
the fear of more gravity
and all that human traffic in the street
where finding one�s true match
means someone else has to hurt.

In the time of spinning houses
when houses spin like bottles
and all the labels like Husband
Lover, Friend keep changing faces
like drunken Tarot cards--

All I can do is wait.
And lay my body down
to be your runway.
Line it with the golden wrap
of caramel kisses, the sheen
of rainbow fishes that
once circled around your head
and walked with you from
the parking lot to the supermarket.
And leave a light in the center,
barely pulsing but always on.


�2007 by Ray Sweatman