Whispers of the House

A timber side drifts through the the corridors as if the ages lean

upon the floor. A lantern pulse behind the plaster, counting moments no one keeps.

I pass beneath the ribs of stairways small enough to slip between

their doubts. What mortals hide. In heavy silence I gather like a scattered

grain. Above, a murmur curls inside a cradle. Below,

a wrestler's argument grows thin Walls remember every heartbeat. Long after names

have melted out, I am only whisker dust and listening. But every night

you raise your voices, and every tonight this house