how to make a home 

i take sliver clothe scissors
& cut blocks of fabric out of dusk. 
i tell a cloud to hold still & a plane 
buzzes like a fly or maybe is a fly 
carrying a hundred or so people to another tree
or town where night isn't coming yet.
i want to make a wedding dress 
from the crepuscular air; full of gold 
& orange & thread of purple that don't belong.
i want to live on this street forever &
by forever i mean as long as it will hold me
& as long as it's still summer & i'm still
too young to keep track of time & too young
to want to be dislodged. maybe i am old.
maybe i'm ancient & made of rocks & that's
why i want to be a mountain or a cliff. 
each patch of grass is full of sewing needles.
each street lamp has a veil tangled
with moths & other cluttered insects.
i use deep navy blue thread. i use 
a patch from the knee of one of my old pants.
i throw all my all clothing to the curb 
& tell the trees to try it on. the trees 
don't think any of it will fit but they try
anyway--my old dresses & my old head-bands
& my old skirts on their branches. they want me
to stay outside forever & never have a house
or a growing up & i explain that i've had
so many growings up that i can't keep track--
that i'm done with them. that i want to 
be heavier & covered in bark not skin. 
they want me to try on leaves & moss. 
they want to show me how a branch could sprout 
from my chest-- how my skin could
give way to foliage & how a flower might
emerge from my neck each day if i talk to it right. 
i bring my jewelry which
turns into beetles & centipedes.
i pluck needles from the dirt & work 
with the fabric. no one is getting married
but this is a wedding. i hear bells
of carapaces & the ringings of a comet.
i hear bees tucking each child into 
a nook in the nest. i hear a satellite 
telling a bed time story to no one or
anyone who will listen. i'm in a wedding
where the flower girl is just a basket
hovering somewhere above the clouds.
the clothe is softer than any animal--
the clothe is always humid & cool.
i am dressing in some kind of ending.
yes there is only one trumpet 
lodged in the throat of a bird who 
never wants to disturb anyone. yes there
is a dress too long to be made & the chatter
of branches each wanting to dress human--
to come down on the sidewalk & hold hands
& push strollers & walk dogs. a plane
lands in a tree & the people get out.
a car's headlights break loose & 
scurry into the grass all blaring &
un-hide-able. i don't know which family is mine
& if they would listen if i told 
them this story. i knock on front doors 
& people walk out but just see
a neighborhood staring back at them.
i tell them my name but they close
their doors. i collect broken glass
for new teeth. i find a sock for a tongue.
i wear the dress made of falling asleep 
& everyone turns over & it's only
me awake.