I was looking for a house.

The texture of the day was honey and apricots.

I sat between plump cats and lithe tigers.

I wanted to ooze between the cracks
of blue cobalt bottles lined up on a Virgo's window sill,

each filled with a different sunny grain.

I was looking for a house to hold the old dreams

all grown and gone off to college –
the Nobel prize-winning seed of the brilliant sea captain,

the old off-shoots of genius asleep for all time
at the deep end of my genetic pool.
I pictured the poet and philosopher
waiting together at the top of the mountain

for the Dalai Lama of Tibet to descend to them

by helicopter. "Waiting for Dalai," I cracked,
and they both laughed. One had a leg cast and crutches,
I don't remember who. I was looking for a house
that remembers. Perhaps the proverbial A-frame,
its vast redwood windows reflecting pools of California light
into my blue gray eyes.

I scanned the ads for a house without cages
and unwritten contracts
and rageaholic lies.
A house that wouldn't turn me into a housewife
married to itself, or make me a pack rat
or eat me up. A reliable house without inside locks.
for comings and goings, that frames my pictures
from wise little baby to hippie yippie gal
to house-brand old lady.
A house that holds no grudges and scary closets and cobweb corners,
but instead elastic gatherings of terry cloth curves
to snuggle my stuff. A forgiving house
with net chandeliers where grow-light falls
on old wounds band-aided with invisible scars.

A survivors' house. An unconditional house
without house meetings and house rules held up by refrigerator magnets.
Not moldy-old. Not formaldehyde-new: A mid-life house

constructed at the center. A middle-road house
A Retin-A-frame house that settles its foundation
under healthy smoothies on kitchen tables through sun drenched windows.

A house that fits my speccs

of circular halls
and permeable walls
and a roof of rainbows.