Call yourself crazy, but these swallows in the eaves speak
of arriving, of settling in like flames.
                        It is midnight when you flee

with your daughter into the garden, blessing
a nursing bra, holey pair of panties. How you stare, amazed
   as people grow from the ground, shimmering

in tuxedos to praise the raging body
of your home, gaping
   windows keeping nothing sacred. Morning you return, 

                                                            your house a post-
holocaust sanctuary, plastic curtain grafted to the altar
of your vanity. You see in the sodden marriage 

of your photos a glue no prying will undo:  wife to husband,
the mouth of your child an O against the ear of a relative
   whose name escapes you. All next year 

you dream of flight, of burning and birth.  You find
a looseness in this. You sleep longer,
   wandering often
                                    amongst the ashes where you haunt
the ghosts of your belongings:  knitting needle stuck
to the baby's doll, the hearts of sweaters eaten by mice.  

You admire charred trees for their audacity
to reach beyond earth, think of planting beans, of attaining heaven
   by climbing. You pine for simpler things, 

whole days outside. Blood, as a method of expression, not a map
of your years. In the soil you find another piece of glass
   and your eyes burn – 

pollen, or the low morning sun – you've no time to question it now,
what with these seeds to tamp down, one more year rushing by
                                                      like a house on fire.