SUNDAY POETRY #3 - I LIVE IN MY CONCRETE HOUSE

I LIVE IN MY CONCRETE HOUSE

A CONCRETE HOUSE HAS BUT ALL TO BEAR

ELONGATED BY THOSE LINES BUT HEAVY WITH SITTING WEIGHT

WE COULD POKE HOLES TO REVEAL STARRY SKIES

IN THROUGH AN ATTIC OF NAILS, SHUTTING DOORS TO HEAVEN

AS THE LIGHT DIMS AND BENDS PAST,

WIRE, BARBED AND SEALED,

TWISTED, HANDS CLASPED INTO POETRY

IN DOORFRAMES, WINDOW PANES DUSTED WITH STARS

A CIRCLE OF HANDS FILLED THE SEAMS

WITH WHITE ROCKS AND SOUNDS OF WATER

WHILE THE CELLAR BELOW SMELT OF DIRT, OF EARTH

AND THE WIRE FENCE SURROUNDED US, ENCASED,

THE WALLS BECAME SO THIN, SO PERMEATED,

A SLIGHT BREEZE WOULD QUIVER

THE CURTAIN, SHINING WITH LIGHT.

IN TIME, MEMORY BECOMES FINITE –

BECOMES THE CONCRETE HOUSE YOU LIVE IN.

#poetry #sundaypoetry #memory #process #writing #text

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