How do you bear spaces
that are haunted with refutation,
the caprice of foamy sentience
perhaps still pebbled with cold laughter,
now rumpled in flamboyant senility?
The telephone is still towed away at the corner
with a voice in droplets.
The mirror
on the derelict walls which was once coloured
by momentum of relentless scuttling
and the odd friction of cold feet,
all hushed
into the subdued grace of indifference.
Who would have you believe that
there once hung clothes beside the deckchair
here in summer,
the rooms surging with Margaret’s laughter
shooting through the roof?
Now the laughter stumbles in soot
with ants peeling away at the skin
in relentless digging.
Memory
gambles with the odd caprice
of an old spider hanging from infinity.
Library of Mirrors 