Houses:
The cloud of migration is in his eyes,

and in the leather briefcase the book, the pencil, the family photograph

the rust of benches on his hands, the rust of bannisters and doorknobs,

the rust of handshakes on his hands.

The briefcase propped against the wall-

will he take out his souvenirs first, or will he

like a magician take out a country:

a house,

a street,

a capital.

He closed his eye, lay back against the shoulder of familiar habits.

He will not make friends with another vase,

he will not confess to a bed that will blow up in the next war,

he will not make tea or sing.

He will pace back and forth for a long time betwthe porch and

the kitchen

and he will listen hard for a sound coming from the garden gate.

But there is only the crunching of leaves under feet

passing

then

going on;

there is nothing but the hum of talk in the houses next door.