– Chris Bolin –
A weeping willow’s branches
dangling from a silk screen
over a girl, with a hangnail,
seeking shade;
the screens look tattered where the models
let down their hair.
This blank screen is a stretcher,
carried through the empty streets
to my door;
I let the neighbors knock
to listen to them building
a guest room for themselves.
I hang a tapestry, I’ve made
of their arrival
(I tattered their horses’ tails
to check the room for drafts)
you are fine
builders, I tell them,
as someone begins knocking on the back door
perhaps, nailing us in.