Its stairs creaking to the weight of
the ghosts of memories walking up and down
while I lie curled up in the bed
like a fetus in the wombing dark
listening to the trembling house pumping
memories in and out mixing times
into watercolor clouds.
The house is going home–
the roof, the walls, the floor boards, the cornices–
piece after piece, faithful to the earth’s beckon,
its pull of love,
and I feel being lowered in a wheelchair in a hospital elevator
to an underground theater
where they contrive to stop the clock.