Sarah Jane Barnett
He builds her house, up the hill, on
a barren hexagon of land. He grades
and stakes it for the concrete pour.
He hauls great limbs of pine that
cut his hands and splint his back
until the frame rises like a mighty
Saguaro cactus filling with rain. One
evening there is a fat cloud of bees.
They hum like worn out machines
and rising canals. They hum into his
empty spaces. He starts to sheath
the frame, and each morning walks
the skin of the house, cigarette
in hand. He taps the hollows and
listens for a riff of wings.
REFERENCES
Sarah Jane Barnett
Sarah Jane Barnett
He builds her house, up the hill, on
a barren hexagon of land. He grades
and stakes it for the concrete pour.
He hauls great limbs of pine that
cut his hands and splint his back
until the frame rises like a mighty
Saguaro cactus filling with rain. One
evening there is a fat cloud of bees.
They hum like worn out machines
and rising canals. They hum into his
empty spaces. He starts to sheath
the frame, and each morning walks
the skin of the house, cigarette
in hand. He taps the hollows and
listens for a riff of wings.
Sarah Jane Barnett
He builds her house, up the hill, on
a barren hexagon of land. He grades
and stakes it for the concrete pour.
He hauls great limbs of pine that
cut his hands and splint his back
until the frame rises like a mighty
Saguaro cactus filling with rain. One
evening there is a fat cloud of bees.
They hum like worn out machines
and rising canals. They hum into his
empty spaces. He starts to sheath
the frame, and each morning walks
the skin of the house, cigarette
in hand. He taps the hollows and
listens for a riff of wings.
Sarah Jane Barnett
.jpg)
.jpg)
