I live in the house of habit,

rarely venturing out the front door
or the back door,

I stare out the windows and dream.
I keep myself from going too far.

I live in the house of habit

I can’t resist dreaming but I worry
ravishing dreams will be the end of me.

This dreaming beckons to me
without any sense of measure

I live in the house of habit

which I have built slowly over
all my years, even surreptitiously.

Experience comes out of peril, but
habit softly muffles everything.

I live in the house of habit

and can’t tell you how to find me,
because I no longer know my address

where I am alone without myself,
luxury approaching death itself

I live in the house of habit,

a place I never intended to be
that just grew up around me,

with a desk of polished bone
I compose a memoir of nonentity

I live in the house of habit

« « Previous Post: Coastal Fog | Next Post: Beyond Dreaming » »
Share This