Zach Savich A House Called Fire

A woman waiting for a bus, arm in a lace sling. A mannequin spun in hazard tape. A girl keeps looking up as she writes: sketching. Whenever I see someone mouthing to herself I think she's reciting.
You asked us all to bring an interesting rock—actually, I think you said pretty—and it is annoying when three people pull out sketches of rocks they dreamt, two bring pocket lint—it makes you long for real geology. Larvae-frond curls of Ellensburg Blue we sought, not precious, but dusty, rare. Irrigation ditches zinging with sun sliding near the cherry fields.
And then love's wooden chimney is with us. To teach someone to build a fire you can tell them how or offer some wood and make them cold. They might build a house. If you've already labeled the picture, the house will be called fire.
We feel the rooms are clear, as we know when we are in them, but now I'd like someone to appear more clearly with a small dish of olives, an ornate mirror. Everyone at the quarry used to say your husband and I look alike. It's like I'm with you now.


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