Moving House I live in one room, then another call them all home, settling as dust might into the same small spaces. These rooms are the body I inhabit that changes cell by cell, yet is still the self, or so they say though the mirror denies it. Some homes I travel to in dreams like the one at the edge of a continent where sand sweeps under the door or the room I occupied as a child moon trapped in the window like a moth and the one where I sit now, heart fluttering in my chest, looking out at the pool, the hot blue of a gas flame, my next destination.