I live in this mansion where the rent is free

The rooms of my house are made of gold
and covered in cloth tapestry. 
The floors are bare, no
Persian carpets or mohair,
only hard, smooth wood. 
Furniture is sparse--
the treasures are many:
little pearls, demurely shining things,
sometimes caked and crusted
in the dirt I find them. 

At midnight, the cocks crow
and up the stairs I go
sometimes flying,
sometimes crawling,
higher and deeper in
(yet somehow there's always a window
that opens to the ocean)

I turn a corner,
the window to sea at my left,
to my right, a soft landing,
a cat cubby,
the afternoon sun striking its center
and there I rest--
it was made for me--

I drench my skin in hot, liquid gold light. 
I feel I could nap but
dare not sleep
for there are more stairs to climb,
more rooms to open up,
more treasures to find. 

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