Houses endure,
\nand become in some strange continuum,
\nfriends.
\nBooks present their covers.
\nArtifacts belong to invisible hands,
\nno one to tell us who they are.
\nI go about the business
\nof opening and closing my life.<\/p>\n
I have an address that may
\nor may not explain myself.
\nA cache of papers that hold
\nfragments of a story,
\nirrelevant to wounds,
\nto the hour by hour tide
\nof love and happiness in my life.
\nBut the essence of my life
\nhas no way to leave itself
\nin the walls and windows of the world.<\/p>\n
Music leaves a trace,
\npoems, an excuse,
\ndiaries a voice calling before it drowns.
\nBut our reality is gone
\nexcept what moved parallel
\nto everything left behind,
\na fresh shirt,
\nthe taste of water,
\nthe dance between me and others,
\nand a wakefulness at night
\nwhen life seems too much to bear,
\ncatastrophe in the end,
\nthat says inside me,
\nreread the pages
\nand say again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Houses endure, and become in some strange continuum, friends. Books present their covers. Artifacts belong to invisible hands, no one to tell us who they…<\/p>\n