After Spicer, After Lorca
In the rooms of Henry’s gabled house, the drift of years is endless
snow and salt shaken down.
He lost his way, this spirit seasoned by the color white. He walks
on a frozen carpet made of memories,
numb to the chill, blinded and frostbitten. Without eyes or thumbs
he suffers nothing in those empty rooms,
but the wind’s lonely quiver. How deep a wound those walls concealed,
how old a scar they left.
The snow, it only drifts now; the salt, it only stings.
In the rooms of Henry’s gabled house, the drift of years is endless.