My House of Bricks

Bricks. Climbing bricks on a foggy morning.

It must be around 3:00 AM. The streetlights

have a certain dalliance then. They're pushing

a little harder to separate light from darkness.

The streets are quiet. My neighbors are all asleep;

Christmas lights on some houses twinkle. Some houses

with only white lights; some with every color

of the rainbow. The lake calls to me. Its black

waters rippling. The full moon hanging in the sky;

it bobs in the fog and clouds. The trees

surrender their leaves. Comfortable. Shedding

layers. The trees prepare to accept icicle

thorns. The trees prepare for winter's kiss.

Drink a cup of lake. Feel the cold grass

on my feet. I wear a white bathrobe. The stars

have names. Some are a jargon of numbers;

it's nonsensical organization. Some stars

are named after gods and goddesses; they're easier

to remember. Myth, story, it's way easier

to memorize than strings of numbers.

I am a string of numbers staring at a lake.

A lake of darkness with ripples popping.

My genetics, a code about my fate. The long

lines to tell of my curses. But the stars,

I think they have some fate about them too.

Fate like bricks. Solid as rectangles

stacked on top of each other. I'm climbing

bricks. I'm climbing bricks to get

to my stars. My house of bricks

where I'll sleep until I can't.