To Andrew: At Two

A poem

To Andrew: At Two

So you've decided to rearrange the furniture,
drag the chairs to the stove, set them in line
until they stand at attention and the buglers
raise their horns. You set the plates to music,
you open the door, you dig behind the bushes
and survey the dirt under the trees. You sort
the big rocks from the little, pile sticks, loot
leaves rotted to a moldy filigree. You dig
as if you could dig to the Earth's center,
duplicate the moon, spring some forgotten treasure –
bottle caps, spent nails, paths into the mossy dark –
until you're the doublooned captain throwing
ballast over, steering the house
through the sudden and fitful sea.

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