Intimacy

Your first morning in your first house,
you imagine, will be uneventful—stir
awake and a moment of unrealization
before the dark curtains and too-gaudy
light fixtures register as your own.
What will the texture of the silence be?
You try, haltingly, to anticipate the voice
with which this house will speak, thin
or baritone, air winnowing or throb
of machinery. So much remains
unknown to you now, intimacies
only that new dawn can tell. Amid
all your suppositions you see yourself
brushing up against something
precious: house as companion,
something you could be overjoyed
to learn about for years to come.
You see yourself, under this roof,
falling in love.

Thanks for reading! This year I'm writing poems about moving into my first house and dealing with a lot of drama and evolution in this and other parts of my life. We'll see where it goes.