Sirens Nursery Rhyme

Here is this house
I painted this house
This house started swimming
This house started these small talks - the talks accumulated in the bedroom corner
I couldn't see through the hallways, talk became a thicket of letters.
I stacked them in the attic. They grew. I threw them down the basement steps; 
the sound bouncing against the walls for days before settling.

I think we look gold in dreams, I'm sure of it.

In my dream last week, I flew across forests, perched dockside your bed. How tired I was from the flight. There was a spotlight on your face as if we were theater, as if we were light coming down into the ocean.
You sit up, play the piano for me and through the night, I could only but crawl toward your waves.

In your dream last week, you played a piano shipwrecked in the pleats of an ocean.
The keys were floating scraps of ground, but night was falling fast and so was temperature.
Your soaking in ice. You were having a dying dream.

 I don't know what your dying dream last thoughts were. I imagine them to be: the sweet potatoes you grew last year, your doll face girlfriend with her dirty neon colored fuzzy socks all over your floor, keys to your apartment, the blow job last spring in Macy's Department Store, how your mom waves from the curb until your car is out of site, maybe a photograph I took of you bowing once in a crowded room?

The house got sick. I cover the sickness with sheets. The sickness grows.
I paint over the irregular shaped moles - the black mold.

Today, I woke to the house looking icier than I'd ever seen. It begged me to take it to the park.
I tell the house I'd lace its walls, hang chandeliers in its puffy eyes.
The house wants to roll down a hill.

We searched the cold afternoon. The house coughs and coughs and barely swims.
By dusk, we come to a rest at the top of a fine wide hill. Below, house tops look like gold, like a painting floating in water.

We both know. 

This house is tumbling
down, tumbling down, tumbling down.