The House
There was a flame in the night, and the flame died,
yet still through the house wanders his impotent ghost
crying no wood to cinder nor body to burn.
The young birch logs and the apple logs of the season
grow hard and brittle and dry and still they stand
crying no wood to cinder nor body to burn.
Even in the hollow stairway and the empty room
hungers the penetration of his illusory pain
crying no wood to cinder nor body to burn.
O my house my home, my stone cold home in the winter,
why did you harry him so, the sun, when the sun was afire ?
for now the summer has frozen, the once green doors are aching,
and he is a ghost, an impotent ghost, and cannot light a fire.
Page(s) 4 (given as p.12)
magazine list
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