house dream 2

Dec 5

You are

lying in a fine old bed wedged deep

into the room, a high fine

bed with springs that sigh,

querulous and worn, like tired

great aunts’ bones sigh for sleep.

polished wood brocades the walls,

dripping, treacly and ornamental;

stones and years press on the lintel,

which, belly over night, buckles a little

as cool darkness swans in the halls.

This, strange vision, house of a close friend

or relative, from a waking life without decadence.

every footstep bears an echo’s cadence;

a subtle wind makes the dust dance.

it is an end for that which has no end,

because you’ve found yourself here, after all —

things turned out strangely, as they always do in dreams;

the house is yours now, crumbling at the seams,

and crowded with foreign fading scenes,

so you think of whitewashing the walls.

Mortician’s Soliloquy