I don’t know if he’d have been better

But I’ve always been sorry for Trotsky.

Meanwhile I build story-homes,

Apple houses, corral apartments

With signs out front—everyone welcome 

And we mean it—shade elms,

Branches depending to and fro…

Up river the houses are bad,

No glass at the windows,

No gods in ambient sun.

What trick of mind shakes out carpets

Of misery, truly?

Here I create rooms with good light

And wicker chairs we can carry outdoors.