We don't live on poor street, but it wouldn't be a long walk

from here. The oldest car on our street was replaced

by the newest one. I know these homes; it is so easy to love

their bones. You can paint the walks or hang a witch,

but you can't remove the home from the house. A house

is a home. The empty home across from where we inhabit

has a chimney habitat for swift birds, swooping down.


When first I saw your home, I knew it must be worthy.

But when I saw the house across the drive, I did not know

its story. So it took some time before I saw the beauty

in the suburbs. Beauty is heart. Beauty is a tug on the strings

of emotion. That's why beauty can take narrative to know.

That is why I know you know my home is home beautiful.

You who have trusted your way through my back alley with me


and trespassed your way behind my paw ways

back to my home. I know you loved my home.

I know you loved my beautiful home, because beauty takes love.

"Am I beautiful?" Loosely translates: Do you love me?

"Is my home beautiful?" Means: Do you understand me?

These things take practice, a rested heart,

a belief in the emotional bed of life.