the true houses of memory,
the houses where our dreams
lead us, the houses rich
with a faithful oneirism,
recoil at all description.
to describe them would be to visit them:
the nuance hence speaks the color
we must, to the contrary,
transcend the difficulties
of description to discover
the antediluvian eggshell
she is truly a cosmos
(and is she not beautiful?)
so far-out that memory and imagination forget
their surroundings,
their shoes, their names.
Must we not render fixation
her virtues? How we trace
ourselves, day in and day
out, in our corners
of the world?
in its millions of alveoli,
space is composed of compressed
time. space is about
that
all of our shelters, all of our refuges consonant
with the true histories, eggshells that once housed us
even after we trailed off from the hunting party
to pause on a rock by the side of the lake
the lake was not man-made
the lake twirled a necklace
twice 'round your neck in a gesture
so shocking we thought it a firework
lit by the hand of a still-innocent child
who refused
to take off her gown
once Halloween
had come and gone
or to surrender
the holiday tree until,
finally, it fell into
a heap of dust
on the first day
of spring
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