He builds her house, up the hill, on

a barren hexagon of land. He grades

and stakes it for the concrete pour.

He hauls great limbs of pine that

cut his hands and splint his back

until the frame rises like a mighty

Saguaro cactus filling with rain. One

evening there is a fat cloud of bees.

They hum like worn out machines

and rising canals. They hum into his

empty spaces. He starts to sheath

the frame, and each morning walks

the skin of the house, cigarette

in hand. He taps the hollows and

listens for a riff of wings.