Perhaps you would like it here.
We have books we never read

on expeditions and disease.
The ones we read you wouldn’t like.

Our kitchen swims with light.
We have food you couldn’t guess,

fridge drawers algid as Tibet.
For us an egg will suffice,

but to you all things are open.
Perhaps you would like it here.

Our apples taste like apple beer.
When we talk our guests take ease,

witch the night with words.
There are rods for rent and kites

drifting in the boatshed.
We have lawns and flightless birds—

predators are shot on sight.
The lodge is a pageant of bears

you can draw and touch, their eyes
fierce as real bear eyes.

Summer days our maid ski boards.
Her hair is thick and pure.

Perhaps you would like it here,
hand in hand, towel at your side.