– Chris Bolin –

A weeping willow’s branches
dangling from a silk screen
over a girl, with a hangnail,
seeking shade;

the screens look tattered where the models
let down their hair.

This blank screen is a stretcher,
carried through the empty streets

to my door;
I let the neighbors knock
to listen to them building

a guest room for themselves.
I hang a tapestry, I’ve made
of their arrival

(I tattered their horses’ tails 
to check the room for drafts)

you are fine
builders, I tell them,
as someone begins knocking on the back door

perhaps, nailing us in.