Living in the House Freud Commissioned

Freud built the houses we were in the end
mutually frightened of, and the prepositional phrases
cropped up describing boats on the water,
or the lake that kept peppering its leafy blue every summer,

and we did not
heed dreams, and we pretended we were ancient prophets
in flowing white, washing our hands only
in rivers or rainwater, trapped in cedar
buckets. but by the time the heat truly
centered and melted the ice that had collected
beneath the trees, we were hiding in the attic,
pressing against the sugar-
thin windows watching Picasso hang himself from the lilac
bush that grew by the swimming pool,

where Clarence Darrow was floundering about,
saying he wished for rain, and we thought we
heard the furnace groan from the basement,
and we thought we found spiders on our hands,

but when the heat lightning turned
to ripened storms, we were outside underneath the
surrealist sky, knowing angels and indian spices
did not grow from volcanic ash, and Freud terrified us
at night mostly, when we forgot syllogisms and
colloquial expressions,

and when we lay privy to dreams under the heavy
bright sky, so awake with stars that had names, and
green eyes. we were all brought upon the altar

of psychoanalysis, and loved people because of the
letters in their names. we did

not appreciate modern art. we were drowning
in the dry tomes of ancient legalities, and the smiling
red gods became myth, to walk the fried-
egg summer streets once again, while we lived in the house
that was with staunch cleverness partitioned.

and flowers grew outside.