I look at houses.
I like their solidarity, shoulder to shoulder
rising over the streets
in waves of sturdy architecture
that fix the undulating landscape
into orderly cross-hatched blocks.
Even the lordly peaks that sit like
wooded islands in this regimental sea
harbor stragglers tucked along each ridge
in loose formation, alternating ranks
with eucalyptus trees until they disappear
into the swallowing fog.
I walk between the lines of walls
lifting my eyes to the angularity
of rooftops against the sky. I take in
the haphazard milk-spill clouds
in a single glance before my eyes
return to their caress of a cornice scroll
or ornamental molding.
Four walls support a roof to make a shelter,
a basic truth grasped so young
that even simple block on block towers
teetering under the clumsy build of childish hands
freely elaborate upon that plan.
I like the curve and jut of
porches, bays, gables, balconies,
pointed turrets, colonnaded arches,
the nubbly texture of stucco walls and
weathered wooden shingles. I like the
dramatic flair of crisply articulated designs
picked out in newly painted colors
and the worn endurance of faded peeling paint.
I look at windows, the blank and staring
rectangular standard for every house, and
see most often drawn shades or lacy curtains,
maybe a cat perched upon the sill.
Upper stories more confident
of their distance from the street may
brazenly show off a plant or dangling ceiling fixture
behind open shades, but even there
the blandly dark interiors recede from view
in contrast to embellished facades.
At night the roles reverse as brilliant
windows awaken lifeless dusky walls
to reveal a multitude of residents
sharing a common myth of privacy
when close enough to hear each other's voices
and smell what's cooking on another stove.
I look out at a ground covered with stars
whose glow bleeds upward to the sky
and think how many stories
lie framed inside these windowpanes.
In this bedroom lovers
quench the fury of their need.
Next door a daughter tells hurried lies
into a phone jammed between shoulder and ear.
In his kitchen a man reaches into a barren fridge
for a beer to wash down today's demise
while one floor below an aging couple
move in tandem lifting chopsticks to their lips.
In my own home I flick on the switch,
a momentary spotlight on my body
as I gather closed the drapes and make
my window another anonymous light
three floors above the street. I lie down
and hear the television from next door below
and footsteps striding purposefully
around the flat beneath. Sheltered
within the walls that set me apart
from strangers I call neighbors
I share with them the contract
built into such houses
where windows open onto walls.
