Monday, November 05, 2007

House poem


The houses we leave still need us.

Pantries, porticoes.

Those transoms float

vagrant plans, hopes.

It's only in our dreams they are

planed, hinged, mortared.

Eaves, joints sprouting

if we'll just bring

shingles to them. The Czech crystal:

each bulb dangles

lonely, lightless,

old without us.

Lonely, lightweight, old without us,

newsprint fusses

in the basement,


papers refuse to stay in their bins.

Who can pretend

sump pumps still know

what to do? Stowed

trashbags from breakups unable

to sleep. Gables

dream us back, brass

keys in our grasp.

Janice Moore Fuller from Séance (Iris Press, Tennesssee, 2007)