The Man Who Lived in Two Houses
One room rests at sundown dust on its shelves like rime motes wander in the waning light another room’s frozen to time He wanders in the hidden hall like Escher’s in between for things as he imagines them or as he once had seen The way that shadows fall blind memory or was it sight? have the substance of all matters, as the weightless skein of night In this house or that one he wakes as he’d foreseen to check what hour had come now in the hall between Two houses with strange angles the yellow house and the white somehow at once together two houses, but then not quite From which window does he watch constellations with no name the stars seem so familiar but the signs are not the same He has gone back to the hall hand unsteady at the door to turn over his doubts there of all that’s come before
I live alone now. My kids are on their own now, and they’re not exactly kids anymore. It’s not what I had planned, but so it goes.
The house shares its opinions, especially that southern side that creaks and pops at all hours. The house is settling, which is probably a good lesson I’d hear more when I’m not talking to myself.
I’ve lived here a year and a half and love the place. It has character. People say it suits me. I suppose it does. But sometimes at night I wake up and wonder where the hell I am.
Yeah, really good job, longing and yearning for something, got a great feel
Very powerful and evocative.