The house

There is a house somewhere in the country
the hills and the woods surrounding it
are hidden under ice and snow
Saturdays only a single bus drives
past over on the highway.

There are strange machines in the house
mechanical sharks of aluminium
a perpetuum mobile in the scullery
and the former owner has placed busts of clay
all self-portraits with grotesque noses
on every single windowsill.

Once we move in
all this junk is going to be cleared out
tin pails of dust and memories
are going to be emptied into the dumpster
and we shall open the boxes, see
that they are wells to the sun
our pockets will we fill with slow days
faded herbs which before were clouds.

We will no longer shove letters
under the doors and run
when we close down and leave
there will be a place in the house
where we met on the edge of the afternoon
and were able to look the summer
full in the face.

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