The House The sky looks more threatening than in any painting and the house that lines my dreams-- the familiar white one, there on the horizon-- seems inhabited by wind. Its windows drift open revealing the glass in their frames. I'm touched by a cold hand on the small of my back. The house responds with creaking. The snow on the roof is all I'm sure of. I let the table remain set with wine glasses. I'm waiting for an important guest. It's all too old a dream to worry me-- the stairs creaking, the windows sliding open, the Chinese shrubbery watching through the terrace doors.