In The Rooms of Henry’s Gabled House

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.

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A New Byzantium

What do the mountains above the clouds do?
What Olympic secrets do they there shroud to
Hide from us our insignificance
And keep us in delightful ignorance?

What do the oceans conceal in the deep?
What clues to greatness do they there keep
Safe from our obtuse conjecture
Among fish and ancient architecture?

And what do the stars whisper at night?
What tales do they tell with shimmering light
Of artists and dreamers and poets to come
Who will fashion a new Byzantium?