Sunday, April 10, 2011

11 of 30

"it is a house set on the foundations of the rain" Pablo Neruda

ruin, i am tired of you,
muddy midden, ash heap
garden of broken crockery,
house of rusted engines, of radio wire

rust sown row of worm eaten turnip
I am sick with your dirt and tarpaper
your thick black mud and oil
has stained my hands, my mouth is filled
with gravel from your half- moon walk
my sleep is the pond filled with old washing machines
and bedsprings, catfish

spider filled mailbox of unsent letters,
tinsel and burnt christmas lights

I am sick of dragging you behind me, a mule
and you my dull and worthless plow,
my wavering track behind me, a line of
sickly sprouts grown from a handful of penny nails

I am weary, and i you are heavy
my father's worthless skeleton lashed to you like a scarecrow
my mother's empty wedding dress
a row of baby dolls with blinking eyes,

my regrets roost in your eaves, blind and shrieking
burst copper pipes and coins green with verdigris

tired of this goddamn paper wasp's nest in the wall, these mice
this black handled phone that never rings
there was fruit, there were pears and pulpy apples
there were days i could forget
the walls, the dead, the way i walked
on the outside of the world because of you
there were sour grapes and onions, birdsong
floorless outhouse and chicken coop,
dry tub and tattered ceiling

i have haunted you long enough

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