In the house of eels there is no bed chamber, no

red kitchen nor French doors opening onto apple blossoms.

In the house of eels all air is water, silken warm.

There are no pets, no keys, no

whimsey, nor ten-foot avocado trees.


The house of eels is a map to the sea, first

the slipping out past harbor lights

then on and on through invisible passages

to where the great salt-lifted boudoir has been floating —

long before any woman, or man, slipped on a pair of feet.