Pages

4.01.2016

Hidden

I propose
turning the key


useless to
conceal from you that
strange things
take place


it used to
ring of its
own accord


chair by
the window and the
door closed


saw the curtain
detach


falling


when I weary of
looking, something is
bound to appear


walking
backwards


she is frightened
by the sound but
cannot describe it


the face
vanishes, the
hands remain


white arms beneath
fearful drapery


looking out, over
the hill


I burn it, it
distills a dark mucus


curtain
wrenched away


a gossamer
veil, as it
seems


resembling, yet
most unlike her


armless
chair, handless
cup


sloping downwards to
the base of the hill


momentary
grasp around
her ankle


an old-fashioned
house


a narrow
lane on a
declivity




Keith Waldrop,  from The House Seen from Nowhere (Litmus Press, 2002)

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