The House of Forgetting

The house of forgetting
has no doors, its windows

lie smashed beside cold
foundation stones.  Even

the chimney leans like an
old drunk against a lamppost.

A singer breaks his voice
against low sky and crows

answer from dripping yews. 
Their sounds are like brittle

fingers snapping in the wind
or the crunch of footsteps across

a rickety floor.  Everything
feels empty here, and wan,

everything has come undone.
Even now you drag your

wounded toe, carving patterns
in dust – lips have forgotten

their blood-red streaks
and eyes their glinting blue.

Where are the bricks
of memory, rough, red feel of  

their bodies cradled heavy
in the warm flesh of your hand?

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steven Klepetar would be pleased to hear them.

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