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.
