Building a House with Robert Creely

We dropped
wood in thick
stacks made
of the same winter
we hated

Glasses tipping
a steady grade
down the
ridge of your
red nose, always

The house built
kept us decent
as beavers
in both spring
and summer

Your Maine-coat
looks stolen
from the cave of
a small bear
or mountain

Your hair mats
like the leaves
in the mud
in the thick mud
in the thickening mud