the peach house

the clapboard was peach,
but worn near white.
bleached by the unblocked
sun. not a tree around.
a straight dirt path
of rising dust
where the chained dog
ran and ran.
there was a metal rooster
at the peak which spun
with the awful wind
telling you of the places
you couldn't be. north
or south, west,
or east. it was a house
full and empty
at the same time.
each room a sanctuary,
each bed, at night, a place
with which to leave.
sometimes when you drive
by you can still see
your face in the corner
of a window.