“The
         houses that were lo
         st for ever continue
         to live on in us;   that
         they                   insist
         in us  in  order  to live
         again  as  though they
         expected us     to give
         them  supplements of
                   living.”

                Bachleard  

 

*

I am spinning elliptical—

Around a house made of lead.
Now a house that can’t catch its breath,
Now a house made with creaking.

Revolving round a house with rooms so
Small that light cannot escape.

I am spinning elliptical—

Around a house made of hungry knives,
Now a house made from clutching hands,
Now a house made of bruises,

Revolving round a house with windows
Like hungering mouths.

I am spinning elliptical—

Around a house made from sackcloth and ash.
Now a house made of coarse promises,
Now a house made of bleak vistas looking backwards.

I am spinning elliptical—

Around a house made from my memories.
Now a house made of your memories,
Now a house made of our memories.

I am spinning, spinning elliptical—

Caught by day and by night
Spinning through this cold solemnity
That is nothing more than
The gravity of so many houses.

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