the dollhouse

i carried the dollhouse, safe on my shoulders
bowed but steady, beckoned with becoming
beneath shooting stars and satellites, she sat in my seat
speaking such small safeties and the softest subtleties
and as we descended the hill and passed beneath the freeway
stars scattered across the river, nightlights in the bay
soft sodium like glass across the banks of the Willamette
all smudged by the speed—like it was in the old country
tiny stairs and iron girders—like under tropic entry blues
and two paper people with button eyes and paper promises—
‘hold this tiny house’—we whisper—‘keep them warm ‘till dawn’
and the moon, obliging, smooths the dark and carries on

and through the black city, the blue mountains cry
the dusty desert valleys and the coastal cliffs, too, cry
because they told me to hate America, i oughtta watch the news
but i wanna find America so i oughtta drive through
and across that great mass i sailed with a shipmate, dearest
who pointed eastward to some harbours to which our souls felt nearest
part of them, at least, or perhaps the fragments we left sitting
and the fragments we’d leave at some hour deemed fitting
by what? by what? to where? to whom?
none of these answers—i haven’t the foggiest

she guides me through MiniDV smooth zooms
and rivers of brake lights rushing crimson
flickering like the lapping of rivers and waves
and darkness in the rearview you can’t even imagine
she doesn’t know where, either, but we step out into mass together
‘in the land of the living, it’s keeping on the road that counts…’ forever?
we could get away with anything in that tiny little car
sailing softly down the interstate beside the golden silver, afar
i’ll play for you still, if you promise you’ll keep the nightlight on
and you can have a permanent piece of my medium-sized American heart
but if you take it—do this for me:

tuck the streets into the seams of my coat
and split-shift a glimmering world into focus
roll the lens until the image pieces back together
smudged, but less so, by the slowing speed
and run off with me like the imposters we are—through the black city
and we’ll fly with our heads out down riverside freeways
and watch, wind in our hair, as the smudging turns solid
as young and dumb becomes free and numb—
hopefully not, i really hope not
i never want this to end—
and watch as what we stole and bootlegged become anything we ever wanted…

so long as we carry that dollhouse, that glasshouse, holding tiny, happy people
keep it safe here on our shoulders, like some semblance of home
and everyone’s sleeping upstairs, all safe and sound, like a passenger seat satellite
carrying me to sleep from the car to my bed