must be something about the house,
about the way the wood smells or the floor creaks.

must be something about its dusty furniture or the doorknobs
on the walls.

so many doors to let myself in through,
but here comes the water.
it's knee deep and rising,
crisp and smelling of rain.

the creaking has turned to swaying,
and the foundations seem to be dancing
and groaning, and lifting,
and water drained through the doors

and now i hear the waves outside.
sway deep and right and up and left,
the wood smells wet.

i opened the curtains, we're at sea
the magic of the old house must be buoyant,
the house is alone but for Jonah and me