Eleanor
At 32 who could see the shower of stones
the calcification of small guilts
The universe inside becoming one millimeter smaller
I have been spending my life waiting for a house
to open its doors and eat me until my molecules separate
The fantastic reproaches both small and gigantic
What if you flip cards over and I guess them all right
the windows wouldn't shatter - that will come later
Or not at all
At 32 the hall of portraits of faces that are known
becomes a hall of empty frames
It constricts like an eye in the bright light of day
Youth is binge and age is purge
it is the sound of air sucking into long locked rooms
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