Poem · 3:42am Aug 29th, 2017
A house is like a mould, I think:
It has lines and contours and nooks and crannies
And every house has a shape of its own.
When you put a person in a house
They grow to fit the shape of it–
Conform to its contours–
Feel out the space and impress upon the imperfections.
There’s a wall in my house with words written on it.
“Anglers Quarters,” it says, “Also known as Irish Row.”
It tells the whole history, top to bottom, front to back.