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There is no house for it,
unless we say it lives
in a house without walls
or with a neighbour at night
juggling fireflies on a freshly cut lawn.
It is less in an artwork than in the eye
and there beholden, it is just a visitor,
a guest welcome to an empty chair,
and sat at all tables of ritual, free
to leave, it will serve itself.
Adorned by whatever metaphor,
it shape-shifts; best illuminated
in its quiet ways before or after words.
Sometimes invisible,
In some frame or other,
I reach out
my hand to touch it.