Thursday, August 24, 2006

The House With Broken Windows


Like an empty face.

We are alone, you and I,

Abandoned (though we are both

Weighted with debris).

So much for sentiment

(often false)

And memory

(misleading at its best).

Its accumulation wears the

Owner thin.

Scissors cut paper

And paper wraps rock.

Was there once hope?

Hardly, though the illusion

Is hard to shake.

Endings are contained

In all beginnings

And the text between the

First and final words

Is often arbitrary

(though some have called it


It has rained

In the bedroom.

Water warps the floor.

Erosion melts most everything

In time's meandering course.

Rock breaks scissors.

The front faces North

But the door points West.

The sun is a constant

Except at night.

Near a window by the door

One chair remains (though

It was never meant for sitting).

And paper wraps rock

(do you remember the game?)

Snow has fallen

Between the rafters,

Hushed in confession.

Is it memory or simply

A shadow?

The difference is mute.

All houses are full of

Such shadows.

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