It is the burrow of a sand worm decorated with pebble and shell the tides bring in. This house is part toy: we move lamps and chairs about exactly as I did in my dollhouse, where I first played at creation and fashioned dramas, gave names to china animals, like Adam; and like a god, invented rules. This house is part clothing, a warm coat that keeps us snug from the cold, a huge raincoat that covers us dry. It is our facade to friend and stranger, stuck over with emblems of our taste, our friends, our flush times, our travels, our previous misadventures. This house displays our virtue to each other. I swept the kitchen floor twice this week. But I took the trash to the dump Tuesday. I am putting up shelves, so kiss me. See how the freshly polished table shines like a red, red apple with love. This house is a nest in which the eggs of worries hatch fledglings of cowbird’s young who usurp the care and push the right nestlings out. This house eats money and shits bills. Bed, table, desk: here is the hearth of love.
