Write of the empty house after satisfying myself that the
full house exists. But what are full cupboards and furniture?
Anger sees itself in the beautiful mirror too.
Now the empty house—to scrub for the last time the
kitchen floor that could not absorb us, re-affirming as it was.
To hang up the old flowered curtains in the void, early
winter night graying the dozen closets like exhaust in the
inner chamber of an engine.
Hours are spent alone in this house for the purpose of
making it emptier.
Not that the pictures are gone but that a house resembling
a soul is no comfort; further, is without spirit.
We even remove the lightbulbs and locks from this
scene of liquory parties and great inspirations.
It is hard now to want to remember the lack of afterlife
of the thing, which had always been assumed to have its
secret will or, even, its verse form.
If this was an error of ten rooms, a spatial mis-faith, who
are we to trust each other. The art of believing correctly
… never occurs to the wild creatures in their full latitudes,
among the mountains of forest draperies… never occurs.