silverwheel
Bluelighter
A house at the foot of a hill
that I search, the cavities of the beds,
the window, the red carpet,
and stillness that lines the hallways
and leads me again
into bare foyers.
The musky odor of the shelves
stays with me long after I wake,
wafts in my nostrils, inducing
a violent sneeze that disrupts
even more dust in the carpet.
I pace with nicotine urgency,
unable to pacify the sense
that I have been in that house
in some other space of time,
tasting the water of life
that is absent from my own living rooms.
And again, I am left with bare shelves
as I lie in the corduroy recliner,
fretful that I cannot chase this idea
away from me, subject to its little games,
like a fly circling, toying, skimming my ear,
tickling the lobe as it brushes past;
it incites an aggressive wave full of sick drama,
something for it to laugh about, if a fly would,
as it flies from the room
that I search, the cavities of the beds,
the window, the red carpet,
and stillness that lines the hallways
and leads me again
into bare foyers.
The musky odor of the shelves
stays with me long after I wake,
wafts in my nostrils, inducing
a violent sneeze that disrupts
even more dust in the carpet.
I pace with nicotine urgency,
unable to pacify the sense
that I have been in that house
in some other space of time,
tasting the water of life
that is absent from my own living rooms.
And again, I am left with bare shelves
as I lie in the corduroy recliner,
fretful that I cannot chase this idea
away from me, subject to its little games,
like a fly circling, toying, skimming my ear,
tickling the lobe as it brushes past;
it incites an aggressive wave full of sick drama,
something for it to laugh about, if a fly would,
as it flies from the room
