'Home..., or something like it' revised

a house built into the side of the top of a hill outside the city limits of a fairly average town with a Norwegian name barking of a dog who fell asleep two summers ago with a needle in his vein and never woke up again a graveyard on a hill by the Pacific where the sun sets like a postcard picture and the stars looks like pin pricks where magic leaks into a world that needs more the town that curls around Liberty Bay and the coffeehouse that hangs over the boardwalk; the comfortable, maddening trap of town and coffeehouse soccer-mom mini-van breaking speed limits and blasting Brit-Indian techno entering the homes of my friends without knocking because to do otherwise would be unnecessary two girls with the same name, Sara(h), one the mother of hearts, one a reader of souls a girl who is my opposite, "Jazz," my negative reflection, Lilith to my Mary, of Janus because we are cannabis in the backyard with sweet peas, lilies, dahlias, and climbing roses, mosaic goddess dances motionless in the center, fresh eggs from nagging chickens crumpets from scratch, acid coffee, French onion soup by the light of saint candles (I cut all the onions without shedding a tear, she did everything else, and looked like the Madonna) clouds of brightly-colored paper cranes, a yellow submarine, huge finger-painting, and sunset, all floating overhead two bookshelves of fiction and poetry, alphabetized by author, or editor, if it's an anthology an easel, made of scrap wood by my father when he was an art student, too large and awkward to accompany my own scholastic voyage blanket of pin-pricked night sky beneath five bright Tibetan prayer flags when my roommate is silent, by which I mean, when she is absent the smell left in a clay-colored sweatshirt that I wore to sleep every night when I slept in my own bed for a change big hands, big enough for mine to disappear inside a bed that smells the way we do, not just as I do