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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Warren Street II

A hundred times I try,
and still I cannot enter
the closed chambers of my childhood home.
It is locked in the nautilus
of other hearts.
It is boarded up and accepts no visitors.
It tells the story of me and us.
Bright sister who is a memory
everywhere in its rooms.

Her grave is empty,
she never rested there.
The house holds her and my brothers.
The one who came back in winter
and told my father his journey was over.
He had no more dreams,
and he is in the house,
now, with my father,
who tends the garden
I walk in at night,
feeling it grow and assemble its flowers,
and crisp onions,
and June roses red as blood.

And my youngest brother,
he too comes to the door
and tells me,
spring has opened the trees,
and the apples will come back,
and he’ll save me some,
all in good time,
when I stop my wandering,
and follow the whistles of the trains
that pass in front daily,
forever.

But I know it’s not time.
The house gives me a poem now and then,
and the kitchen opens up,
and I see the cold black iron
of the stove,
and wonder,
how many dimensions are there?
How many clocks has the universe wound up,
keeping track of all of us,
whether we sleep or not,
or whether we care?

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