houses
three houses
stretching from gnarly bow to
copper-greenish branch – only
dropping
one or two at a time
sweet seeds enough to breed
tree houses
a sylvan hotel on the outskirts
of town looking on the steeple
of a country church – its sabbath
psalms echoing painfully
on the tympanum in number two
green houses
hidden in summer’s glory
days to shield the men from pesky
folk intent on taking aim – trying to
test Josiah’s mettle and break
him into baby twigs
poor houses
in spirit and pocketbook
yet each armed with steely latch
guarding unknown contents –
at dusk the shadows of one
candle cannot reveal
light houses
suspended at risk of plunging
mere meters down – the common
room looking after ill-fated siblings
huddling together in fear
and shame
glass houses
no brick or mortar – under lock
and key and susceptible to the raps
of Isaiah the seer’s allegations: “and what
is it you guard with fastened doors?”
the arborist poses
slaughter houses
tremble at the shock – major
prophesying at the door’s weak
and rusty hinges now wet with dishonor
and ruin and guilty sobs making
a last long dirge
—Lewis Bosworth
