Monday, June 29, 2009

NEW HOUSE

Hung in its scar on the hill
The new house, childish as a barn
A new colt dumped in the pasture.

Curtainless illiterate rooms
Display in freeze frame for the first time
The ancient text of window and star.

We find the exact middle of the thing and sit
Beside our fire, where green wood
Screams at us from its brick cave
Like sour flutes.

We can have no rest
In this furniture.
No sleep.
The walls don't recognize us
Gawk at us
And will not leave.

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