Leaving

closing the windows, touching the walls

never repainted, taking down pictures,

rolling up rugs, catching my hem

on an upraised nail—

delphiniums in a cracked

old jar—last gathered, once blue—the husks

spilling out, the sap slipping down,

cold fingers of water cascading

to the ground—

I decorate the house

with dusty hands, bare feet leaving marks

for the slight sun to dry, the wind crying

in corners, singing through cracks, a chorus

of sighs in my hair—

the wind explores

the dust, the webs, the last scattered threads

of my old house—calls it

home.

 

 

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