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The Dwelling By Robert James Berry Three generations stay in my house. The air crackles with memories the forgiven, and what cannot be bobs like a cork in seething silence. Time has been misremembered by skirting-boards, shins of the house kicked in webbed cornices, so imaginative blotches may mean something, or not. A rotten dentistry of beams hold the roof doors moan arthritis, window casements aren't all there shouldermarks of the dead shine. It's a chemistry the timber creaked and split generations before has healed now, where I am lashed to a desk pitted by adventure, overgrown with scrawl coffee rings and history. Creation on which my elbows dream makes my bitten, inky fingers move. |
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Document last modified on: 12/03/2006