field of tiny houses:

square windows turning
into pixels-- screen 
i press my finger into
until it widens & i can enter--
every image wants 
to be given something--
wants to be fed
your skin & your fingers--
maybe even just an eyelash
i dip my hands into all the photographs 
in my parent's house--
touching the faces of us
as if we're still lives--
bowls of apples-- 
statue families:
try to get each figure 
to blink. there's a chandelier 
of tiny houses--
porches in all directions--
trying to climb into a tiny house 
while it hangs above
our dining room table-- how
all chandeliers 
ask to be scaled--
i have always looked 
at our ceiling as if the house 
will flip its poles 
& the ceiling will be
the floor & the chandelier 
will wilt-- 
a great willow--
each petal of a tree: the curtains
of all these tiny houses
blowing apart. 
the thing about tiny houses 
is we all build them
& they're all just flowers 
& they're all just 
television boxes--
build them 
in living rooms
in refrigerators
on pillows
as if one day we will
be able to fit our whole self
inside & stay there--
turn on the light & become
a glimmering pixel 
in some other image--
pace the tiny world & 
occasionally look out
the window to see
the whole field of tiny homes--
each person staying safe inside
their own square--
i build tiny homes
in the bath tube--
in the sink-- on lover's 
backs while they sleep
hoping they will get up
& destroy the house
so i can blame them.
if one day i am gone-- please
pick me out of the chandelier
unfold the tiny home:
a jewelry box 
pluck me out &
wear me as a window