Hang your coat on the doorback,
your shirt upon the drying line
beside your love of fragile things.
This shelter was built in the memory
of a kitchen table,
in the likeness of the inside
of tiny hands
that doubled both as earplugs
There is a name
carved beneath the bannister
and in the hearth we burned old letters by.
At the top of the stairs,
a pile of blankets empty in a certain shape
like a question mark too excited to be still.
Pull the floors up
and over my head.
Be a runaway, orphan eyes,
the sole inhabitant of this island
I am building just to name
after the way you kick your shoes off
the second that you walk through the door.