I have been made to be curious by a house which stands, swaying in my memory, perchance intentionally forgotten. Once, upon asking you what to do with the sodden-down imagery, you answered:
Fill the house up.
With only about two hundred people, there isn't a whole lot else allowed except to fill up a house.

Once, I came home and found myself suffering from horselessness. Once summer kicks in, it's a scapegoat for everything: both good and bad. If a window sweats, it's because of the summer. We're all giving up synthetic fabrics: it's summertime. I blamed the horselessness on the summer. They must have figured something out--a hole in a gate, a life outside the perimeter I draw with the outstretchedness of my own arms. Why, when I came home, was the radio cold and the telephone warm? Every body, every hand of the two hundred that had filled the house, had busied itself with earring-up on the phone, summoning some lonely blue summertime conversation.
I asked you, again. You said:
Drain the place out.
Every time you and I realized we'd reached coupledom, we laughed about it, crying over jokes of meeting in the middle. After filling, and draining, I'd met you there, then stepped back.