The winter moves across the body of the house in intoxicating gasps of slow shock -
the house has always steeped
itself in cold light,
inhabitants moving in echoes like
chocking ghosts, stumbling into
country kitchens in search of hot bread,
or boiling water,
a glint of sun might catch your eye
from a windowpane, but all too quickly
it retreats from itself.
Every door is equipped with a scullery maid.
Every woman's blood once ripped through
the body of another,
what love is,
what life is,
what this house is.
Slowly settling into the cold earth,
surfacing anew along the egg-shell horizon,
people put themselves in their solitary places
like so many other city blocks.