I Own a House

I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk,
a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth—you know
how it is: things collect.

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them
with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines
that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not
even know their names. And there is the mockingbird;
over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances—he
actually dances, in the air. And there are days I wish I
owned nothing, like the grass.