The poem is a house
and in its rooms we shove stained coffee tables,
spacious armoires, excessive buffets
we build carp pools in the basement
we line up mirrors to reflect other mirrors
and we grow strange and lovely creeping plants
in brittle terra cotta pots.
They are here
sometimes purely because it felt right
and years later, in another house,
you see how that one plant led you there
to this other place.