This is wet time. I hold it by the handful, scoop it from my brimming shoes, more tangible than the minutes, the hours, that contain me. The clown wanders disconsolate lost on a bland beach stretching in each direction further than eye can see. In this house you can smell, when it rains, through the gaps in the frames, the cracks in the floor, the air as it moves, cool and damp, on the weeping windows. In this house in the wind joints and bones move and sing like an organ, its skeleton racked.
Doors slam, and the floorboards walk weighed with invisible feet.
This house in the sun stretches and yawns its wide windows and breathes in the flowers and the flies. This house we paint and patch. It wears its dressings like an old man wears new clothes, a patient bandages, uneasily. We, with brisk human ways, disturb the quiet rhythm of its last live days. Willing you to collar and lead me and etch Your telephone number on my metallic identity disc.