I want to live in a house made of poetry. At night, I would sleep under blankets sewn from poetry and dream in poetry. In the morning, I would bathe myself in poetry. Poetry would seep into my pores and the spaces under my nails, touching parts of me that are almost never touched. Then I would wring poetry out of my hair and dry poetry from my skin. I would open a wardrobe filled with poetry and dress for the day in a poem that felt just right. I would rub poetry on my face and neck and my dry hands and elbows. I would paint my lips with poetry. I would run down a stairs of poetry. In the kitchen I would boil poetry in the kettle and pour it into a mug made of poetry. I would squeeze poetry out of the teabag until my poetry was strong enough. In the fridge I would find a bottle of poetry and I would pour poetry into poetry. I would warm poetry in the microwave. I would sit down at a table made from poetry. I would eat poetry and drink poetry. I would eat poetry and drink poetry. I would be careful not to burn myself with poetry. I would taste poetry in my mouth and my stomach would feel full of poetry. I would make a shopping list: poetry, poetry, poetry. Someone would remind me that we were running low on poetry, that they wanted some poetry, that there was only one poem left. I would add to the list: poetry, poetry, poetry. The list itself would be a poem. I would burn poetry in the fire to warm myself, and the neighbors would see broken poetry in the sky. I would breathe poetry. I would walk around with poetry in my lungs. I would be a poem.