The Dreaming House

  by David Chorlton

The mantis on the door frame, the moths
around the lamp, and lizards
sleeping through the winter in the cracks
that hold our walls together
are signs the house is dreaming
on its old foundations

of the time when desert was walking
distance away
with its scents as rich
as the scarves of smoke curling out
from the Chinese dens

before they became history ahead of their time.
Nobody remembers Chinatown
and of the trolley
whose terminal was around the corner
only the schedules remain.
The house is a light sleeper

listening to voices trapped
beneath the plaster
that speak at night when insects
find their way
through space to our address

where they rest
like notes from the subconscious
to allay our fears
that cities outlive nature.