The rooms of my house are made of gold
and covered in cloth tapestry. 
The floors are bare, no
Persian carpets or mohair,
only hard, smooth wood. 
Furniture is sparse--
the treasures are many:
little pearls, demurely shining things,
sometimes caked and crusted
in the dirt I find them. 

At midnight, the cocks crow
and up the stairs I go
sometimes flying,
sometimes crawling,
higher and deeper in
(yet somehow there's always a window
that opens to the ocean)

I turn a corner,
the window to sea at my left,
to my right, a soft landing,
a cat cubby,
the afternoon sun striking its center
and there I rest--
it was made for me--

I drench my skin in hot, liquid gold light. 
I feel I could nap but
dare not sleep
for there are more stairs to climb,
more rooms to open up,
more treasures to find.