“Wandering Around an Old House”
To believe in its miracles,
the forthright structure,
the beams of memory,
shrugged shoulders of light
in hateful corners,
crouching after midnight
lying under lie detectors smoking
with bullseyes and wasps
the ghosts kindly speak us,
their kisses hold no memories
so when we moved
the house left the earth,
unmoored, a spell spooling
bedeviled, betoken, bespoke:
it all happed yesterday
for whose fevers
we’re still leaning sharper icicles.
nicholauspatnaude 
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