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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

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