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)
.
.
.
