There is the house of my life
and the house of the woods.
There is selection, the waiting
rooms of manufactured nests
and the rooms of passerines,
full song. There are hinged doors
to other doors and thresholds
to sudden meadows, clearings
full of Indian blankets burning.
There are plate glass panes
and the eye in the canopy,
mote light spilling down, down.
Dimly, then face to face,
everywhere holds a mirror.