Ouch, Burning House, when are you going out?

Red windows, shut your red mouths. I cannot endure

Your hot voices swarming through me because now

In my poem I have become you! I thought,

“I put this house in my sonnet and I can take it out.”

Ted, I thought this burning house was something

I could don and doff.  NOT. Is this what art feels like?

And what it feels like to be art? On fire not able to stop?

Shut up you red ambulance a poet is inside you!

It’s 12 PM in the dark neighborhoods of sad youth.

At heart we are infinite, we are ethereal, we are weird!

And yet, Dear Ted, forgive me, but I need the boat of a bigger name:

Four syllables—Odysseus—myself tied to the mast of it

Listening to the sirens scream.