She dreams of a house with appalling peculiars,
Tilting off-kilter, with rooms round as tumors –
Where garlic blooms, sprangled or spun-up like rose,
Thread-tied to windows that neither open nor close;

Where loves lies awake beneath some soft unspooling,
Where loves comes to bed like some spring morning’s cooling.

My god, my good girl – what meat do you eat?
Where in this house does your company keep?
Alone in the chimney, alone in the kitchen –
Where in this house is your hungriness hidden?